Boromir's Return
by Osheen Nevoy
Summary: Boromir awakens from his death and finds himself in an unexpected situation. Basically book universe with some AU bits, but inspired by Sean Bean. Complete! Chapter 29 up, nine years after I started writing this.
1. Chapter One: In the House of the Collect...

Author's Note to Revised Edition (June 2011):

During the nine years of writing and posting this tale, some of my grammar and understanding of correct punctuation practices has improved, largely due to helpful notes from readers who said things like, "This is great, but you ought to capitalize the beginning of a quote when it comes in the middle of a sentence …" (etc.). It is my hope to make Boromir's grammar and suchlike as proper as I can, since it seems that as Denethor's son, he would have had proper grammar strictly imposed upon him as he was growing up! So now I am taking the opportunity to go back and fix those errors that I find, as well as some (minor, I believe) errors in continuity that crept in along the way.

Original Author's Note (April 2002): Okay, this is my first attempt to upload something and I'm petrified of messing it up. But, if anybody's reading this: I have no claim to the characters, situations, and events created by J. R. R. Tolkien, and I'm not making any money off them. This is written with all due respect to Mr. Tolkien, and with all due admiration for Sean Bean, who made Boromir the sexiest man in Middle Earth. (Anybody who's got any advice on how to upload stories without going mad, let me know!)

_Chapter One: In the House of the Collector _

I think I remember coming back.

It is not in my memory as a tale with a beginning and an end. Not until later, when I tried to capture the memories and force their secrets from them, did I even fully realise that I had them.

I remember a jolt, like when one falls out of half-sleep. I remember a rush of pain, as of countless flame-hot daggers driving into my chest. I remember a feeling as if my breath was stuck in my throat, and I remember it suddenly breaking loose again in a gasping, choking cough.

And then I remember my body deciding that all of this was too much. I remember curling up against something that felt soft, and sinking into sleep. I think I felt a blanket being pulled over my shoulders, but I was asleep before I managed to wonder who was there.

When I did truly wake up, it was many moments before I could force myself to think.

I was lying on my back. That was probably the one thing of which I felt certain. Not lying in a bed, but on what felt like a pile of blankets on the ground. A large, thick pile of blankets, not my usual bedroll.

What was I looking at? Something blue – a blue ceiling. I puzzled on it. A domed ceiling of some strange blue stone, pale and misty, that seemed to keep changing depth and hue and distance. The way my eyes couldn't take hold of it made me wonder if it might be Elvish work. Only this wouldn't be an Elf house, because Elves have beds.

Of course, it could be some band of Elves who didn't believe in beds.

Or Elves who didn't believe mere Men to be worthy of beds.

I told myself, _I need to sit up._

The thought was creeping into my brain that something was very wrong. A lot of somethings, probably, and whatever they were, I was doing nothing to make them right by lying here maundering about beds and ceilings and Elves.

Where was I? And where was I supposed to be?

The Fellowship. I had no trouble remembering that. I had some confused memories of fighting what seemed to be several dozen Orcs. I thought I remembered them being larger and faster than the usual Orcs, and I remembered ... being wounded, I thought. Being shot. The feeling of an arrow slamming into my chest.

If I'd been wounded, and the others had brought me here to recover …

The others. Were they here? Had some of them been wounded too? If I spoke their names, would any of them answer?

I didn't hurt. I remembered an arrow in my chest and I didn't hurt. Had I been lying here long enough for the wound to already heal?

Another memory sliced through my mind. I sat up, fighting my way out from the heaps of blankets.

_Frodo!_ my mind screamed. _The Ring! Oh, please, Frodo, forgive me!_

An unknown voice said cheerfully, "Aha, you're awake."

I blinked and tried to take in the picture around me.

The blue ceiling at which I'd been staring curved down into the walls of a circular room. One round window cut into the wall showed beyond it no recognisable landscape, only what seemed to be some glowing greenish haze. Over to the left was a short, arched doorway, but I couldn't see what might be beyond. The floor, of dark, hard-packed earth, was piled high with – stuff. The heaps that met my eyes seemed to be mostly pieces of furniture, more or less dilapidated. Burst and stained cushions, a table with three broken legs lying on its back, part of a ship's mast with the ragged remains of a sail, a carved chair that looked disturbingly like the throne from some ancient noble or king's funeral barge. They were mixed indiscriminately with curving chunks of driftwood and round, bright moss-covered stones.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor between the window and one of the piles was a creature, watching me with fascination.

I'd never seen anything like it. He – I supposed it was a he, at least there were no outward signs to indicate that it wasn't – was small, around the same sort of size as the Hobbits, from what I could tell. But there his resemblance to the Hobbits ceased. He was a pale, very bright green, like new grass, from the top of his head down to his bare, paddle- like feet. His head was very long, for all the world like a horse's head, only the big, dark eyes were set in front, and he had no ears that I could see. His mouth must be different from a horse's, too, because it was curved in a recognisable smile, which sent a shiver down my back at the sheer oddness of the sight. He wore a tunic of some dark, rough-woven green fabric, set here and there with a peculiar assortment of trinkets: shells, smooth pebbles with holes in them, a broken necklace, a leathern belt hung over his shoulders like a chain of office, a broken dagger hilt and some worn pieces of bright-coloured glass.

There was an eager, delighted air about him as he stared at me, and I had the feeling that I was either a very welcome guest or his next meal.

Well, he was a lot smaller than I, and some of those bits of driftwood, or maybe the table legs, would make pretty good cudgels. I reckoned I could defend myself against becoming his daymeal.

I asked the creature, "Where am I?"

"In my house," he said, and before I could say anything else he was racing on, "Is the bed all right? Is it soft enough? I've got plenty more blankets, you can have whatever you want. Is it all right being dry? I thought Men like their beds dry, but I wasn't sure. We can soak the blankets if you like. Or, I've got a nice pool, you can sleep in that if it's better for you. You should probably get some more sleep, you know. Should I show you the pool?"

"No," I said blankly, "dry is good, thank you."

He beamed at me. "Are you hungry? I've made some stew. Men do like their food cooked, don't they? I've never cooked stew before, so I don't know how it is. You'll have to show me how Men do their cooking. It's just water plants in the stew, but we can get other ingredients for you. There's plenty of fish. I can get food from the shore, too, if you want it. I can set snares, catch some rabbits. Or there's berries and nuts, too. I made some tea. I don't know if it's any good, but it's hot. You do like hot drinks, don't you? I'll go get it."

I stared after him as he leaped up and scuttled through an arched doorway that I hadn't noticed before, to the right, half-hidden behind one of the piles of furniture and driftwood.

For a moment I entertained the alluring thought that I was dreaming.

No such luck, though, I was sure.

I noticed a thick, heavy smell hanging on the air, like wet clothes drying over a peat fire. If that was the fabled stew, or the tea for that matter, he certainly didn't have much notion of how the race of Men prefer their cooking.

But other questions were troubling me more than the cooking of my unknown host.

Where was Frodo? Where were all of them? Could they still endure having me as one of them, after what I had done? Would Frodo ever feel he could trust me among their company, without someone guarding his back every moment that I was near?

And the battle I half remembered, with the Orc hordes in the woods. I found that I couldn't remember how it had ended. I didn't remember Frodo being in it at all. The question stabbed at me again, where was he? If he had run away, from me, and been found by the Orcs when he was alone, alone because of my betrayal …

I did remember two other Hobbits in the fight, Merry and Pippin. But every time I tried to seize onto what might have happened to them, I just kept finding myself back in the memory of that arrow thudding into my flesh.

I was starting to think that I didn't remember just one arrow. How many I remembered, I didn't know. Two at least, maybe three? I just remembered the sickening jolt as they ploughed into me, and the spreading, burning pain that seemed to hit me over and over again. Maybe I was just imagining that. I could be confusing my memories of delirium afterward, if I'd had a fever from the wound …

I thought suddenly, what wound?

I was back again to the inexplicable lack of pain.

I looked down at myself and found my tunic to be fastened in a haphazard, hopelessly skewed fashion, like a child's first attempt at donning his own clothes unaided. There were large gaps where it wasn't fastened at all, then bunched up areas where several hooks had been pulled to the same place.

I undid my belt, then without bothering with the other fastenings I yanked my tunic over my head, pulling the shirt off with it.

There were no wounds on my chest. None. Not even healing wounds, or new scars, not even bruises. Nothing.

My host bustled back into the room, hands full with a steaming earthenware bowl and a smooth wooden cup that also gave off tendrils of steam. He set these on the ground before me and sat down just on the other side of the bowl and the cup, watching me again with bright eyes and eager smile. He noted my half-clad state, and asked, "Are you too hot? There's not much I can do to change the temperature, but you can have a swim."

"No," I said. "I'm not too hot." I was, in fact, feeling increasingly cold, and I didn't think it was due to the temperature of the house or to my state of undress. I couldn't be bothered to put my clothes on again just then, so I pulled one of the blankets over my shoulders, shivering a little as I did so. Determined to behave like a proper guest, and not give in to the fear that whispered to my mind, I picked up the steaming bowl. The warmth of it in my hands was welcome, even if the peat and wet clothes smell didn't do much for my appetite. "Thank you," I said. "What is your name?"

"I'm Svip," said the creature.

I was waiting for the expected continuation, for "Svip son of …" or at least "Svip of …", but nothing followed. "Thank you for your hospitality, Svip," I said. "I am Boromir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor."

"Gondor," said Svip. "That's down river from here, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"You'll have to tell me all about it. I don't think I've ever talked with anyone who's been there."

I took a cautious sip of the dark green, lumpy stew. Its taste wasn't much more appealing than the smell, as if he had boiled up fallen autumn leaves out of a gutter, but over the years I had eaten worse. He was watching me with wide-eyed expectancy, and I smiled at him and politely took another gulp. I set down the bowl and took up the cup of tea, but didn't drink from it yet. I wondered if it would be exactly the same as the stew. At least it, too, was warm, though the warmth in my hands would not be enough to fight the growing coldness inside me.

"Svip," I said, "how did I get here?"

"Oh, I found you."

"Found me where?"

He looked a little uncomfortable, his gaze shying away from mine. "In the River. You haven't tried your tea."

Obediently I took a swig. It was somewhat better than the stew, spicier and sweeter, though it still had a dank earthiness that made me feel I was drinking mud. "It's good," I said. I drank again.

In the River. My imagination conjured a vision of me with the arrow in my chest, grappling in hand-to-hand combat with one of the giant Orcs, and both of us plunging into the River as we fought. I knew, though, that it was only imagining. Somehow I knew that it had never happened.

I asked, keeping my voice low and steady though I wanted to shout out my questions, "Svip, where are my friends?"

He was growing more uncomfortable by the moment. He wouldn't look at me, and started fumbling with the bits of glass stitched to his tunic. "They must have left. You're the only one I found. Do you want some other clothes? I've got lots in my collection. Pick out any you like. Do you want to go see them? We can go now. Or when you've finished eating. Or are you finished already? We can find something else to cook for you. We could go fishing."

"No, thank you," I said, "the food is fine." To prove it I drank more tea and had another large bite of dark, leafy stew. I firmly put down the bowl and stared at my strange green companion, until he nervously looked at me again. "What was I doing in the River?" I asked.

"Well, nothing," was the evasive reply.

I held his gaze, letting the hint of a threat sound in my voice. "Svip?"

"Well, you were dead." As sickening coldness lurched through my guts, Svip hurried on with, "Not for very long. Only a couple of hours, if that. You hadn't started to smell at all yet. To smell dead, I mean. I don't mean Men don't smell interesting. You don't smell boring at all. You had some blood and sweat smells, I think – if that's what Men's sweat smells like – but most of it was washed off in the water …"

"Svip," I said, "I don't care if I smell interesting or not." I suddenly grabbed up the wooden cup and gulped from it, draining it to the last sludgy drops. My heart was pounding as if I'd been running for hours, and as my whole body shuddered I thought wildly that Svip would get another chance to smell my sweat. I forced out the words, in a painful mockery of a casual question, "Am I dead now?"

He looked surprised. "Oh, no. Dead Men aren't very interesting. I mean, they're interesting enough. But they don't talk. I've seen lots of Men dead, but I've never got to talk with one of you. Do you want more tea?"

"No. I don't want more tea." I felt like the hero in some fireside tale, caught in a magical game of questions. "How did I get to be not dead?"

"I brought you back." He looked cheerful again. "I could, you see, because you weren't drowned. I can't bring back the drowned ones. The River doesn't like it. It keeps the drowned ones for Itself. I tried it once and the River almost kicked me out. But you were fair game. I saved your things," he added with a puppy-like eagerness, longing for approval. "Most of them, anyway, I think. All the ones I could find. Do you want them? We can go see them. I can go back and check that I didn't miss any."

My mind was reeling. I desperately wanted time to think, but for that I needed Svip to stop talking.

Maybe I should do what he wanted. Perhaps if I went with him to look at his "collection," it might slow down his questions long enough for me to sort out some of this madness.

Probably not. But it was worth trying.

"All right," I said, "let's go take a look."

My host bounced to his feet, his smile growing so broad it looked as if it might split his skull in two. Proudly he said, "Follow me." He set off at a surprisingly fast pace, considering the size of his feet which it appeared to me he ought to be tripping over.

I was the one who nearly tripped on my feet. As I stood up I staggered, only barely managing to save myself from falling over. The blanket slipped off my shoulders. I stood there, biting my lip and struggling to stop the spinning sensation in my head.

_Only to be expected,_ I thought bitterly. _I haven't tried standing up since before I was dead._

I wanted to deny that whole idea. I wanted to say it was ridiculous, it couldn't be true. But a cold little voice had whispered within me since the moment I discovered that I had no wounds. That voice was murmuring now, "Of course it's true. You know it's true."

Svip had reappeared at my side. He was looking up at me in almost comical alarm, probably trying to calculate whether he should try to support me, or run. It can't have helped that if I fell on him, I would probably squash him.

The little creature looked so worried that I felt I had to force some sort of smile, in an attempt at reassurance. Judging from Svip's expression, I'm not convinced that my smile was any improvement.

"I'm fine, Svip," I said. "Really. Hand me my shirt, will you?"

He leapt to oblige, grabbing my wadded-up clothes from the heap where I'd flung them and then starting to turn them around in his hands with a look of confusion.

"Just the smaller one," I told him. "The white one, there. Yes, that's right."

He handed it to me with a hopeful smile that I thought still looked rather nervous. I wondered if Svip were debating whether this Man he'd brought home would make such a good pet after all.

I turned my shirt right side out. As I was doing so, my hands came in contact with something that made me freeze.

Once again, I wanted to yell out denials of all of this. Either that or start breaking things.

I swallowed back both reactions, and silently put on my shirt.

The shirt had three tears in its fabric. Sharp cuts as would have been made by a knife, or scissors. Or by arrows. I hadn't noticed before when I'd pulled off my clothes, but I was willing to wager that my tunic was sporting identical holes.

When I had the shirt on again I looked down, staring miserably. One hole was just under my left collarbone, one was an inch or so right of my heart, one was down near the base of my rib cage on the left side.

The wounds that should be under those holes would have killed anyone.

Alone, each wound might have been barely survivable, always assuming they'd missed my lungs and all the other crucial organs. But together – there was no way I could have survived.

I had been dead. Really dead.

I had thought I believed it before. But to actually see those holes, each big enough for me to stick several fingers through – it gave the concept of my death a grim reality I could have happily done without.

I had been dead.

And now I was – here.

"Are you all right?" whispered Svip. His voice sounded afraid.

I took a deep breath. At least the spinning in my head seemed to have stopped.

"Yes," I said. "Yes. Let's go."

Svip tilted his head to one side, looking doubtful. "Are you sure? You're sure you don't need more food first? Or more sleep?"

"No, I'm sure. I'm fine."

With one last worried glance at me, Svip set out toward the other arched door, on the opposite side of the room from the one he had used when he went to fetch my stew. This time he was moving a good deal more slowly, and kept looking back to check on me. "Mind your step," he said hastily, as I started to follow him. "Oh, dear. Should I make the paths bigger?"

"No. Thanks. I'll make it." The pathways between his piles had certainly not been designed to accommodate a being of my size. But I thought, _If I can make it through the Mines of Moria I can negotiate my way through some piles of clutter._

At its centre the room was tall enough for me to stand upright in. The highest point of the ceiling was a couple of inches above my head. But by the time we reached the arched doorway, I had to bend over double.

Svip scuttled under the arch and I followed, taking hold of the archway's edge with one hand as I manoeuvred myself through it. Crouching on the threshold of the next room, I stopped, bemusedly pressing my hand harder against the edge of the door.

Whatever this place was made of, it was not stone. It was smooth and soft and resilient, giving way as I pushed against it and then creeping back into place. It had the same blue mistiness as the ceiling, and as I jabbed one finger into it again it looked as if the colour within the wall was actually moving. It was like a wineskin made of a goat's bladder, if the skin were stretched thin enough to see the wine through it.

_So the place is magic,_ I told myself. _It's magic and that's all the explanation you need, it means you don't have to think about it._

Of course the same could be said of my return from death. But that didn't mean I was likely to stop thinking of it.

Ahead of me, Svip was saying again, "Do you want more clothes? I've got lots. They're all in here. I'm sure there's lots that'll fit you."

This new room seemed identically constructed to the one we had just left. But it was piled so high I could barely see walls, ceiling, or anything else.

I gingerly made my way to the point where I could stand up straight. There were no cleared paths here, only narrow strips where the clothes at the edge of each pile must have been trampled down by years of Svip walking through the room.

I looked around, and thought it looked like the stock of all the tailors' guild of Minas Tirith had washed away in a flood and ended up here.

Everywhere around me were enormous heaps of fabric, some of them stacked all the way up to the ceiling. There seemed to be every colour and every type of cloth imaginable, though in most cases the individual garments were jammed too tightly together for me to tell what they were. Rough sacking cloth was packed up against fur, linen, cloth of gold. Flung casually on top of one heap I saw a baby's white dress, with a great, dark stained rip in it, and I had to bite back an oath.

I told myself that each of these garments did not have to represent a person who'd been lost to the River. There could be wrecked boats of merchants' cargos, floods, discarded trash, all manner of explanations beyond corpses floating down the Great River. Though of course I knew that the River never had any shortage of corpses.

Corpses like mine.

Svip had apparently made no effort to dry the clothes before he threw them in here. The room was permeated with the odour of river water and mildew.

Consideration for my host should have kept the amazement and distaste off my face, but I don't think I managed that.

I was careful not to touch anything besides the stuff I was stepping on. I was convinced that if I did make the mistake of touching something, Svip would give me no peace until I'd accepted the unpleasant piece of rubbish as a gift.

I eyed the various piles, but didn't see any of my own clothes thrown onto them.

Svip was perched at the top of one of the shorter piles, watching me warily.

"Svip," I asked, "was I wearing more when you found me?"

His face brightened. "Oh, yes. I haven't put those in here yet. They're with the rest of your things, in the armoury."

The armoury. That sounded better. "May I see the armoury?" I requested.

"Yes! Come on." He bounded off the heap and through the next low, arched doorway.

The next room had the same musty odour, but it was at least less ghoulish, and the piles were shorter. Svip grandiosely described it to me as the library, which of course meant that it was an impossible mess of warped, water-ruined books, manuscripts, scrolls, and crumpled up scraps of paper. Immersion in the River had left many of the books incapable of being closed, and they lay splayed open forlornly, some with their words too blurred to be read, some with text still clear and illuminations as bright as the day they were painted. Several of the books I walked past were in Elvish script, and I thought, Gandalf ought to see this.

Gandalf's dead, I reminded myself grimly. Of course, so had I been. I supposed it was always possible that some fellow collector of Svip's lived at the bottom of that pit in Moria. Though if he did, he would probably be a less pleasant character than was my gracious host.

The room that followed was the treasury, which to Svip apparently meant the room with everything bright or metal except for weaponry. Gold and silver vessels mixed with stuff too tarnished to recognise and such priceless items as a dented brass chamber pot.

"Here we are," announced Svip, beaming. He scampered through another arch, and I resignedly crouched down yet again and clambered through it.

My first reaction was anger, outrage that anyone would leave so many weapons uncared for, to rust and fall apart.

It shouldn't be a surprise, I told myself. Svip had hardly shown himself concerned with the condition of anything else in his collection. Besides, some of these weapons could have been in the River for years, or centuries, before Svip had found them. I couldn't blame him for all of their dilapidation.

They were as various a combination as everything else in the place. Enough swords for the garrison of the White Tower, as long as the swords didn't all disappear into powdered rust the moment one picked them up. Battle axes, Orc scimitars, huge spearheads from which the hafts had rotted off, a longbow that seemed entirely coated with pearl. There was at least one full suit of plate armour, and some unknown number of other partial suits, including one silver gauntlet that rose from the heap looking unpleasantly like some dead warrior's hand stretched out in one last plea for help.

At the near edge of the sprawling pile was a modest stack of items that I recognised. I knelt down beside them.

I ought to thank Svip, I supposed. Not only had he brought me back to life, he'd taken a lot more care of my belongings than he did of his own. My cloak, outer tunic and chain mail were more or less neatly folded, with the Elven cloak above them and my gauntlets and sword belt placed on top. Beside these I saw my helm – and two sights which brought a lump to my throat, and then made me angry with myself for that weakness.

My sword, and the Horn of Gondor, both broken.

The scabbard and sword hilt were both there, but the blade was broken a few inches below the hilt, and the rest of the blade was nowhere to be seen.

Both portions of the broken Horn were there, and I placed my hand upon them, willing myself furiously not to allow the tears to spring to my eyes.

As I gazed at the Horn, the first thought that leapt through my mind was, _My father is going to kill me. _Which had a painful irony to it, under the circumstances.

_It does not matter,_ I told myself. If I returned – when I returned, and when our cause was won, we would have a new horn made, that we would hand down to our descendants in memory of this, our greatest peril and our greatest victory.

I only half believed that any of those things would come to pass. But that was a struggle I had fought with myself many times before.

It mattered nothing whether I believed it or not. I had to act as if I believed we would win. If I admitted that defeat was possible, I would only be helping to bring about that defeat.

Svip had appeared at my side. He said quietly, "All these other swords were with you too."

I frowned at the pile Svip had indicated, next to my belongings. Ten swords, half of them the usual Orc scimitars and half of them short, broad- bladed swords, the precise like of which I did not recall seeing before.

Or – perhaps that was not true, after all. I thought for a moment that I had indeed seen them, wielded against me in the fight in the woodlands beside the Great River. A fight which half made its way back into my memory, and then again was gone.

"I've got your boat, too," Svip whispered, when some moments had passed and I had said nothing.

"Boat?" I asked, hardly caring about the answer.

"An Elven boat," he said in a tone of awe. "I've got it moored outside. That's why it was so easy to find your things, I think. They were pretty much all still together. If it was anything other than an Elven boat that went over the Falls, they would have been scattered all over everywhere."

_An E__lven boat,_ my mind repeated. _An Elven boat that went over the Falls_.

A feeling part wonder and part nausea coursed through me.

My companions had sacrificed one of our three boats for my funeral. Which meant that at least some of them had been alive to give me a funeral.

I did not like to think of what else it might mean – that perhaps they did not need three boats any more, because more of our company were captured, or dead.

The other portion of Svip's comment gave me the inevitable image of the boat with my corpse upon it, plunging over the Rauros Falls. Which image nearly caused my stomach to empty itself of the water plant stew.

_Enough,_ I ordered. _You are not going to think about that._

I looked again at the ten other swords that Svip had found with me. They must be those of my opponents, that my comrades had gathered up and placed in the boat with me. For a moment I indulged in imagining the scene of my funeral, then I tried to banish the image from my mind.

I told myself, _You might as well still be dead if you're just going to sit here imagining your own funeral. _

I'd stayed too long already. I should get dressed, thank my host, and get out of here – or find the way out, by force if necessary, if Svip were not inclined to let his guest depart. I didn't know how best to proceed, to find my friends. All I could think to do was to find the spot where we had camped, and where I had fought. To search for any sign that would tell me what had happened to them, and where they had gone.

I didn't know if they would accept me back as one of them, after what I had done and tried to do. Perhaps they would never forgive me. I saw again the fear in Frodo's face, the disdainful scorn in Aragorn's, the protective anger in Sam's. No, perhaps they would never forgive me, but what did that matter? I sneered at myself, _You're not some maiden out husband-hunting, to measure victory or failure by whether others care for you._

Whether they forgave me or not, I had to find them – or find however many of them were still left.

I had to learn what had happened to them, and do whatever I could to help.

If there was anything left to be done. If Frodo had not fallen to the Orcs, and the Ring was not already back on Sauron's hand.

Whatever had happened, there would still be fighting. My country would still have need of me, even if my former comrades of the Fellowship did not. I knew that my own countrymen, and my father and brother, would welcome me back. And if I were just to fall in battle again, at least that was better than sitting here. I could at least die with my family, fighting shoulder to shoulder for our country, rather than perishing in the wilderness for a quest in which perhaps I should never have taken part.

I glanced at Svip's massive heap of weapons. Amongst all of those, there had to be one sword at least that was still sound.

Turning to Svip, I said, pointing out the ten Orcs' swords, "You can keep these for your collection. And these." I moved my broken sword to join the trophies from the Orcs, and after a moment's hesitation I added the Horn of Gondor as well. "I'd like to take the boat, if you'll part with it, but I can go on foot if you'll not. And I'd be grateful if you'd let me take a sword from your collection. I'm going to need one."

Svip was staring at me, his eyes gone very wide. "You don't understand!" he protested. "You can't!"

"Can't? Svip, you surely don't need all these swords -"

"No, you can't go! You can't leave! You'll die!"

That put an abrupt end to my rational arguments. It also temporarily put an end to my powers of speech. I swallowed and managed to echo, "I'll die?"

"Yes," he said miserably, staring down at his feet. "The spell I used to bring you back, it only works here. If you leave here you'll die."

I was not going to panic. Or to strangle my companion. I took a few deep breaths. "How did you bring me back?" I asked.

He looked up and pleadingly met my gaze. "Silverweed. It's an old remedy, they used it a lot in the Old Wars for healing wounds. But it wasn't strong enough to bring you back on its own, not with all the wounds you had. I used the River water, and the mud from the bottom; it's all tied to here, right here, if you go it'll lose its power, it gets weaker the farther away you go. You'll die."

"So what will happen?" I demanded. "If I leave your house I'm just going to fall over dead?"

He averted his eyes and just said again in a strange, hard tone, "You'll die."

I scowled at him. I thought there was something wrong with all of this, with the way Svip was talking about it. I thought, _Either he's making up all of it because he doesn't want to lose the latest addition to his collection, or he doesn't know what will happen – or he does know, and it's so hideous he can't stand to tell me about it. _

_I should leave anyway,_ I thought_. I should find the way out, fight my way out if I have to, and let whatever's going to happen, happen._

If I did just die the instant I left, what did it matter? I had already died. And I was no better than dead if I spent the rest of my days teaching some green horse-faced water creature the arts of Men's cooking.

No better than dead? Perhaps worse. At least if I were dead, perhaps I would not have to face the knowledge that my world was fighting for its life, and I was not fighting to help it.

Svip whispered, "Are you sorry I brought you back?"

For a moment I wanted to yell back, _Yes!_ I glowered at him, then sighed and looked down at my broken Horn and sword.

I said heavily, "I don't know."

Aching weariness was descending on me. I wondered sourly if I really needed more rest, or if it was just my way of trying to get out of facing this.

At least it might buy a little time. Time to figure out all of it – without tripping over Svip as I did so.

But perhaps it was time I did not have. That Frodo and the others - all of the others - might not have.

I sighed again. "You were right, Svip," I said, despising myself for my cowardly indecision as I said it. "I do need more sleep."

"Oh – yes. Yes, of course! Do you need more blankets? Pillows? Cushions? I think I have a hammock somewhere – "

"No, Svip. Thank you. The bed is fine."

I picked up the stack of my clothing, and Svip, scrambling to be helpful, grabbed up my helm. With the water creature scurrying nervously behind, I made the trip back through the rooms of his house, swearing under my breath when I nearly dropped pieces of clothing as I crawled through the Hobbit-sized doors.

I was back at the pile of blankets. I stared at it, wishing desperately that going back to sleep would put an end to my problems.

I found a small nook of open space between the blankets and the nearest heap of driftwood, and deposited my stacked-up clothes within it. After some hesitation, I took the still-folded cloak of Lórien and arranged it as a pillow.

Perhaps the Elves would send inspirational dreams that would show me how to get out of this.

_Yes__, of course,_ I thought, _and perhaps you'll wake up in Minas Tirith and find out it was all a nightmare. _

"Do you need anything?" worried Svip, hovering beside the blanket pile as I settled down and pulled one of the blankets up to my chin. "What about more tea?"

"No," I said, and I firmly shut my eyes. "Good night."

I didn't know if it was night or not. The room seemed the same as ever, with that pale blue light that moved beyond the walls.

I lay there with my eyes shut, but the blue seemed to creep behind my eyelids, to crawl through my eyes and my mind.

I thought of Svip's question. "Are you sorry I brought you back?"

I didn't know.

But I did know that I could not stay here.

I could not stay here while the others needed me.

I couldn't stay with the knowledge that I had failed them.

The last thing I remember before I fell asleep, was a vow to myself that no little green water being was going to see me cry.


	2. Chapter Two: In the Great River

Author's Note (April 2002): Hey, everybody, thank you for the lovely reviews! Now I'm worried about giving you too much of this at once, for fear that you'll get bored with it. But, oh well, I guess no one's forcing anybody to read this. Anyway, enjoy, I hope!

_Chapter Two: In the Great River _

I woke to darkness.

Not total darkness, it turned out. The ceiling that had been blue now seemed black, except that in front of the black was a sort of milky, palely glowing iridescence, as if I were looking through a paper-thin piece of seashell. The glow of it cast enough light around the room for me to see, though the piles of Svip's salvaged furniture were indistinct, looming darkly like a room full of trolls.

I sat up. There was no sign of Svip, but I thought I could hear breathing from the room to my right. A light, wheezing sort of snore.

I don't know that any answers had come to me while I slept. But my resolve had returned.

No longer was I going to lie here, worrying. I would take action. And if my action merely led to my death, what did it matter? As a dead man already, it hardly seemed I had anything to lose.

I dressed swiftly. It was a reassuring feeling to have my clothes on again, although it would have been more comfortable if the clothing were not all damp. I had noticed before, when I took my tour of Svip's house, that the insides of my boots squelched a little when I walked. Now I found that the rest of my clothes had damp portions, particularly where the fabric had been folded underneath. My cloak was the worst. Bits of the fur were wet enough for me to wring water out of them, if I had taken the time to bother with it. The cloak of Lórien, of course, was perfectly dry, and I had an automatic snide thought of how much more comfort might be enjoyed by all the peoples of Middle Earth, if the Elves were only generous enough to share their techniques for making water-resistant fabrics.

That my clothing was still damp meant it must only be two or three days since my funeral. Not a long time, but more than ample for our cause to be irrevocably lost and my comrades to be slain.

Whatever had happened, it was my duty to find out. I had to find the others, to help them if possible and avenge them if necessary.

Or to die, if Svip had told me the truth.

I picked my way between the dark piles, toward the room on my right. I crouched in the doorway and looked in.

The floor sloped down abruptly just inside the door. There were other differences that separated this room from the others – chief among them being that it was not filled with Svip's collection.

This room was illumined by the pale, glowing ceiling, and there was another faint source of light down near the centre of the floor: the last embers of a small fire. Sitting next to the coals were the dark, round shapes of two small cauldrons. I guessed that they held my tea and my stew, though the thought did not inspire me to continue my meal.

Beyond the remains of the cooking fire, the pallid light gleamed on the surface of a pool of water, about four feet across. And lying in the pool was my host, peacefully snoring.

I could not restrain a bemused smile. At least I knew now why Svip had asked if I would prefer sleeping in water.

Most of his body was under the water. Just his head and upper torso protruded, his head seeming to rest on a rock in the middle of the pool.

I frowned and reminded myself that I had more important things to do than spy on my host's sleeping arrangements.

I looked around the rest of the room, seeking for an exit. Only one area of the room looked promising.

The room held one doorway besides the one I was crouched in. It was on the other side of the room, with the sleeping Svip between me and this second doorway. The floor sloped down further toward it. It was arched like all the other doors in this place, but one thing at least seemed different. As I squinted through the dimness at it, I saw that the floor around that doorway seemed damp. I couldn't quite tell in the uncertain light, but it looked like there was water lapping at the base of the door. The light of the pale ceiling seemed somehow reflected off the floor at that spot, glimmering back up off of water or mud.

Right, I decided. I would come back here, if I did not find any other way to get out of this place first. But first I was going to retrace my way through Svip' house.

I was not setting out without a weapon. And the only weapons I had seen here were in Svip's armoury.

This time I paid scant attention to the collector's piles. I did, however, investigate the walls and ceiling of each room.

The round window I had seen in the room I slept in did not seem to have any way of opening it. In fact I was not certain that it was at all separate from the rest of the wall. It seemed to be a thinner portion of the same weird substance that made up the bubble-like rooms. But thin or no, it was not thin enough for me to break through. It stretched and warped when I shoved against it, but just oozed back into place.

In no other room did I even find such a window. And the only doors seemed to be those leading from one room to another.

It made sense, I supposed, that there should be only one entrance to the place, and that Svip should sleep near it. It would provide greater safety for his treasures that way, than if the house were riddled with doors.

I had paused just inside the doorway to the armoury while I scanned the walls in my fruitless quest for an exit. Having determined this last room to be as unbreached as the others, I turned my attention to the weapons sprawled across the floor.

The faint light gleamed on the heap as if it were bathed in moonlight. As I gazed, it came to me that it looked like the scene from the Tale of Arngrim, the one where Arngrim breaks into a barrow mound and fights with the dead ancient king for possession of the king's sword. I had loved that tale when I was a boy. In fact, I had delighted in telling the Barrow King sequence to my brother, because he was invariably scared silly by it.

I reflected ruefully that the only person I was likely to scare silly just now was myself.

This was, I told myself, not at all the same situation as Prince Arngrim's. The pile of weapons and treasure that Arngrim disturbed, after all, had all belonged to the dead king, and had been buried with him. Few spirits, if any, were likely to be hanging around here, just because one or two of their belongings had been added to Svip's collection.

Nonetheless, there was no reason not to do this with a little decorum. I bowed my head and said aloud, "My respects to all of you. I am in need of a sword. I humbly ask that you let me take one of yours."

Not getting any reply, spectral or otherwise, I made my way to the pile.

Most of the swords were in as hopeless a condition as I'd feared they'd be. Many, of course, were simply broken. But of those that were still whole, blade after blade was eaten with rust, raddled with pockmarks, covered with slimy plant life or rattling about in their hilts like so many loose teeth.

A few seemed more promising. Of these, the one that seemed right when I held it was a hand-and-a-half broadsword with vinescroll about its hilt. It had some tarnish, but it seemed sound, and the pattern-welding of the blade proved clearly enough the skill of its smith and the wealth of its owner. The finials of the hilt were moulded in the shape of horses' heads.

I wondered, gazing at it, if the sword came from Rohan. Of course the Rohirrim are not the only people to use a horse motif, but I had seen similar weapons, with the same sort of vinescroll and workmanship, in Rohan at the armoury of my in-laws.

Whoever had forged this sword and whoever had wielded it, I vehemently hoped that they would not mind me using it. And that it would not break apart on the first swing.

Speaking aloud once more and feeling only slightly foolish, I announced, "I am Boromir Son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. I ask your permission for the use of this sword. You have my oath that I will use it with honour."

The sword no longer had its scabbard, but it looked as though the scabbard from my own sword should fit it. I walked around the heap until I came to the little pile of my funeral offerings.

I felt somewhat guilty at taking back the scabbard, once I had already offered it to Svip. But I wasn't going to take the time to debate the morality of it. The sword and scabbard fit as though made for each other, and I chose to read that as a sign that I was meant to take both of them.

For a moment I closed my hand around my broken sword hilt, bidding it farewell. I told myself that I should take nothing else of the offerings my comrades had sent with me; I had given them to Svip in exchange for the sword. But as I looked at it, I knew I could not abandon the Horn of Gondor, broken or no.

I silently cursed myself for my sentimentality, but I also knew how my father would react when I told him I'd left the Horn to be tossed onto one of Svip's piles. It would be used in family arguments for as long as we lived. Not that Father would be too pleased about me bringing the Horn back broken, either. But I reckoned he would forgive me for it, once he learned that I had died.

I considered how I was going to carry the Horn, now that it was in pieces. My companions did not seem to have included my pack when they selected my funeral goods, or if they had, it had not made its way into the hands of Svip. Anger leapt up in me at the image of them dividing my belongings amongst them, but I sternly fought it down. I had been dead, why should they not take my things if they could make use of them? And I had more important concerns before me. It should matter nothing to me if my pack and its contents were abandoned in the woods, scattered at the bottom of the Anduin, divided between my comrades, or if the noble Lord Aragorn had taken them and was even now distributing them as alms to the poor.

I unfastened the cloak of Lórien from around my throat. Slipping it off from over my own cloak, I folded it until it made a sort of pouch to carry the Horn. This I knotted several times around my belt.

It was time to leave.

Once more I made my way through Svip's house. When I reached the room of the pool, my host still slept. I grimaced as I listened to his peaceful snoring. It seemed the coward's way to attempt my departure without waking him and making my farewells, but I also knew full well that I was going to make every effort to get out of there without Svip awakening. I have no taste for emotional scenes, and I was sure that if I told Svip I was leaving it would develop into a full epic poem, with him pleading and wheedling and threatening me with instant death.

I crept down the slope, holding my breath as I passed the pool where he slept. The rock that was his pillow, I noticed, was covered with a thick cushion of dark moss. Svip was smiling as he slept, and I tried to assuage my guilt with the resolution that when I was home again – and all of this was over – I would send a caravan from Minas Tirith laden with gifts for Svip to add to his collection.

As I stepped through the doorway, walking carefully through the mud, I heard Svip's breathing change behind me. But when I looked back, he did not seem to have moved, and his soft snoring started up again.

Beyond the doorway was a sort of antechamber. It was the first room I had been in here that was not made up of the strange, skin-like bubble substance. It seemed instead to be a small cave, about four feet high, dug into damp, muddy earth. The cave came to an abrupt end on the other side of another pool of water. The water was very dark, and every now and then it would swirl and slosh beyond the boundaries of the pond, seeping through the mud toward me as I crouched there beside it.

I had been trying to determine in my mind, while I searched for an exit, where exactly Svip's house might be. That it was near the River, was obvious. But I knew not whether it was on the shore, on the River itself, or even beneath it.

Wherever it was, it was looking increasingly as though the only way in or out of it was through the water.

Unless this were not the exit at all, and the real way out was hidden by magic.

If it did turn out that way, I told myself, I faced no worse fate than getting a thorough wetting. If this were only another pond, I would find that out soon enough. But I would never determine whether this were what I sought, if I just crouched here thinking about it.

I am accounted a strong swimmer. And while I am not over-fond of thrusting myself into dark, unknown places, that has never stopped me from entering them when I had to.

One thing I did not want to do was try to swim wearing my cloak. I took it off and left it there in the mud; it would serve as another gift for Svip, and I did not imagine that the mud on it would bother him. I re- fastened my sword belt so that the sword lay flat against my back, checked that the knots were tight on the improvised pouch that held the Horn of Gondor, and figured that I was as prepared for this as I ever would be.

I lowered myself feet first into the water, keeping my hold on the muddy bank. When I was chest-deep, my feet touched the bottom. I was almost convinced that this was another dead end, but since I was now soaked anyway, I might as well dive under and make sure.

I dropped beneath the surface and swam into darkness.

Reaching my hand down I felt sludgy river bottom and the caress of ghostly, trailing plants. But I did not run into the sides of a pool. The water flowed unhindered before me and above me. I felt the tug of a river's current starting to take hold of me. Looking up, I thought there might just possibly be some light visible above. Launching myself with all my strength, I swam upward.

The current was now dragging me along with it, but I maintained my upward course. Once I glanced back, and saw, below and behind me, a pale glowing structure like some gigantic growth of mushrooms, five domes clustered together and gleaming through the dark water.

It was so strange a sight that I wanted to stop and stare at it, but a whirling eddy in the current took hold of me and then suddenly I broke through the surface.

Cold air and roaring sound rushed at me. Isolated images broke on my senses: dark water, looming trees on the shores, a ruddy glare over one bank from sunset or sunrise. Upriver from me as the current swept me on was what seemed to be a huge, white wall. It took me a moment to connect the roaring noise with what I saw, and realise that the white wall was the Rauros Falls.

At least now I knew where I was, and for which shore I should be heading. I struck out toward the western shore.

I wondered, as I swam, if the swimming was easier than it ought to be. Not that I was complaining. But I was sure that I was having an easier time of reaching the shore here, than I had when my brother and I swam from the bridge at Osgiliath. Though that could be due to the fact that this time I had not just spent several hours in combat.

My wondering was cut short as jagged rocks along the shore reared up before me.

I tried to swerve my course to avoid smashing into them too badly. I scraped against one broken fang of rock and was swept on, tried to grab hold of the trailing limbs of a fallen tree stretched out into the water and lost my hold again, and finally fetched up against another outcropping of boulders, with my arms wrapped tightly around a small rock pillar.

After some moments to catch my breath I started pulling myself along, clinging to the cracks in and between the rocks, until I reached the point where the water was shallow enough for me to walk through it. I finally flopped down on a grassy stretch of riverbank and sat there, with my legs stretched out into the water.

I was surprised at how cold the air felt. I realised now, for the first time, that the water hadn't seemed nearly as cold as I would have thought. Even when I'd first lowered myself into the water, there hadn't been the shock of cold that I would have expected. And yet now, sitting here, I was starting to shiver.

But it didn't matter, did it?

I grinned as a sudden thought occurred to me.

I was still alive.

I had left Svip's house and I was alive. So much for the water creature's prediction that if I left, I'd die.

Though I supposed it was a little early yet to start celebrating my survival. It would be just the sort of joke that Fate enjoyed if I were to decide I'd made it through safely, and only then keel over dead.

It could always be that I could stay alive as long as I was in contact with the River. If I got up and walked entirely onto the shore, would I be signing my death warrant?

I figured I had only one way to find out.

I looked at the red glow of the sky across the River, gave a mental shrug and got to my feet. I started walking away from the River.

Five strides later I still lived. And thus far I felt no ill effects.

I heard a splashing behind me, a sound entirely separate from the roar of the River and the waterfall. I whirled to face it, drawing the sword from its scabbard on my back.

I brought the sword to a halt a few inches short of slicing Svip's head from his shoulders. He looked at me accusingly as he stood there dripping on the shore; or rather he stared accusingly at the sword that had almost killed him. Svip complained, "That's mine!"

I cursed to myself, and fought to conjure up a calm tone of voice from somewhere.

"I know," I said, my calm sounding slightly strained. "I left my cloak in exchange. It's a fine cloak; you won't suffer from the bargain." I felt no real need to mention that it might have been _nearly_ a fair bargain, before I had trudged halfway across Middle Earth in that cloak, and had gone to my watery grave still wearing it.

I sheathed the sword once more. Svip scowled at me impatiently. "What are you doing?" he demanded, as if I were a child he'd caught in the middle of some ridiculous prank.

"Leaving," I said.

"But I told you, you can't! You'll die!"

My patience was running at least as thin as his was. "In case you haven't noticed," I observed, "I'm still alive."

"You haven't left the shore yet!" Svip snapped. "Give it time!" Then he shook his head. "Don't leave," he said, "please."

I sighed. "Svip, I thank you for all you have done for me. I am sorry to seem ungrateful. But I cannot stay here. I have a task I must fulfil; comrades and family who are depending on me. I can't help them here."

He countered with the not unreasonable point, "Can you help them if you're dead?"

I nearly groaned. "How do you know I'll die?" I asked. "Have you ever done this before?"

"No, but -" he looked up at me pleadingly. "But you will die, I know it! Don't go!"

"I'm sorry, Svip. I can't stay."

I turned and started to walk toward the trees.

Svip must have run after me. He grabbed onto my right leg.

I yelled in annoyance and tried to shake loose his grip.

I wasn't even sure what happened then. I think I swung my arm to try and shove him away, and then suddenly Svip was flying backward and hit the ground.

He lay there face upward, not moving.

I turned and stared at him.

I hadn't hit him that hard, I was sure I hadn't. It had barely even felt like I had touched him.

Yet there he lay.

I hurried to Svip's side and knelt by him, starting to feel sick with apprehension.

His eyes were closed and he still hadn't moved. I didn't know if Svip's kind even had a pulse that one could feel in the same locations as Men did, but I reached out and put one hand to his throat.

I felt his pulse against my hand, and I nearly sobbed with relief. I gripped his small, bony shoulder. "Svip, wake up," I urged. "Svip, I'm sorry, come on, please. Wake up!"

Still nothing.

"Oh, blast it," I groaned, almost under my breath. "Oh, blast it, oh, blast it, oh, blast."

What was I going to do?

I have no major skills in the healing arts. I've cleaned and bound plenty of sword, axe and arrow wounds, both on myself and on others. But faced with a creature whose race I had never even encountered before, just lying there unmoving – I was at an utter loss.

"Svip, come on, please."

I looked desperately from him to the River.

Maybe getting him back to his house would help him. He'd made such a point of how I would die if I left; perhaps the same held true for him, or nearly so. Perhaps he was weakened away from his home, and if I got him back there he would recover?

I thought it was probably wishful thinking. And how would I get him back to his house, anyway? How, without drowning him – and probably myself – before I reached it?

But I saw no other answers. And suddenly I felt a certainty that seemed to come from outside of me, almost as if in a vision.

I could get back to his house, I was sure of it. I didn't know how I knew, but I knew.

"Svip, blast it, wake up."

He did not respond and did not move.

Shaking my head and wondering what I thought I was doing, I gathered the little unconscious creature up in my arms.

I strode back into the River. I made my way out to the last point where the water was shallow enough to walk in, fighting against the current that tried to tear me off my feet. Just beyond where I was standing, the ground below the water broke off in a ledge and disappeared.

Still wondering why I thought this was going to work, I clutched Svip to me with my left arm and jumped off the ledge into the deep water.

One useful thing about doing this while wearing a sword and armour was that I had no difficulty sinking down to the bottom.

Almost without thinking about it I was half swimming, half crawling along the river bottom, against the current. The pale glowing domes of Svip's house appeared before me. I swam to the base of the house, the bottom edge where the glowing domes stopped. I wasn't at all sure I could find the tunnel that led into the house again, but while I was still worrying about it, my free hand, reaching out ahead of me, closed around the muddy edge of the tunnel.

Moments later I was sprawling and spluttering in the little mud anteroom. I had fallen back on my wet, muddy cloak, still lying there. Svip coughed against me, and I very cautiously put him down on my cloak.

He coughed again and spat out some water. Then he lay quiet again, still not opening his eyes or moving.

He was still breathing, I could see that. So at least I hadn't drowned him. But curse it, why wouldn't he wake up? What was I supposed to do to help him?

I could at least get him back to his bed – or whatever one wanted to call it. Feeling huge and clumsy and more than half convinced that I would break him, I picked him up again and moved in an awkward crouch out of the cave, back into his house.

With painful cautiousness I set him down in his pool, arranging his head on the moss-covered rock.

What now?

I sat down beside the still glowing embers of the cookfire.

Maybe Svip could use some tea. Goodness knew I didn't think the tea would be any help to me if I were injured, but Svip had cooked the stuff, maybe he liked it. I found a stick of driftwood with some charred marks and stirred the fire back into life with it, then manoeuvred the small black cauldron on its three legs over the fire.

"Svip," I said to the still, silent figure in the pool. "I am sorry, Svip. You're home again, it's all right. Please, will you wake up? Please?"

What had I done? How did I keep doing things like this? What kind of a brute was I, that I should harm the being who had brought me back to life?

I have been called Boromir the Fair, but I had a strong, miserable suspicion that I should more accurately be called Boromir the Bully.

That was twice now, in what could only be three days at the most. Twice that I had attacked creatures barely half my size. Twice that I'd hurt a person whom it was my duty to protect, or to whom I owed my life.

Curse it. Curse it. I ought to have stayed dead. It was all too clear that when I was alive, all I was good at was hurting people.

I thought bitterly that the Fellowship, my family, my City, all would be better off without me. They were better off with Aragorn.

_You wouldn't find _him_ in this situation,_ I told myself. _He wouldn't have sneaked out in the night to avoid saying farewell to the person who'd saved him, and he never would have sent Svip flying along the shore. No doubt Aragorn would have become Svip's best friend and would have passed a charming, gracious evening with him, singing songs about Elves. And somehow he would have got out of here without hurting anyone, and with Svip still thinking he was the greatest thing since _mithril_._

I picked up the stick of driftwood and jabbed disconsolately at the cookfire.

That was when I saw, from the corner of my eye, that Svip's eyes were open. And he was watching me.

I started to turn my head toward him and his eyes snapped shut immediately.

I thought, _The little bastard._

He'd cooked up this whole thing. From the instant I hit him, he must have been feigning all of it, so I would panic and feel guilty and bring him back here and wouldn't leave. Which was exactly what I had done.

Fury welled up in me. For a moment I wanted nothing more than to wring his scrawny neck. Only then I really _would_ have killed the creature who had saved my life, and I would have to go through all of this, all over again.

"Svip," I said, "I know you're awake. Sit up and look at me."

He still didn't move.

I snarled, "Sit up now."

Svip sat up in the middle of his pool, suddenly staring at me with very wide, alarmed-looking eyes.

Now it was my turn to sound like I was addressing a recalcitrant child. "That little stunt of yours was not funny," I snapped. "Don't ever try that again!"

"It wasn't supposed to be funny," he argued. His voice was growing louder as he spoke, and he ended on a yell, "I can't let you leave!"

"Listen to me. I cannot stay. When I died, I failed the people who relied on me. If I stay here, I'll be failing them again."

"Won't you fail them if you die again, too?"

"I can't help that," I said, hearing my barely controlled rage quivering in my voice. I took a deep breath and fought to shore up my slipping control. I said, "While I'm alive, I have to try."

Svip suddenly launched himself from the pool, and almost before one could blink he was crouching there, dripping, beside me. His big eyes gazed up in entreaty and he grabbed hold of my sleeve, almost as wet as his own. "At least stay another day," he pleaded. "There's so much I want to ask you. We haven't got to talk at all, yet. Please, I just want to talk with you, just another day, then you can go."

I pulled away from him.

Perhaps I ought to do as he asked. It wasn't so much to ask of me, was it? After all, I owed him my life. To his credit he didn't remind me of that, but he didn't have to.

But the thought of staying filled me with a desperate sense of frustration, resentment and near panic.

I had no idea of what might be happening, out there. Whether Frodo and the others were still free. What dangers might be menacing them even now, while I sat here debating with Svip the water creature. And more, a thought that would drive me mad if I allowed my mind to dwell on it – what might be happening to my country, to my City. I'd been away so long. Too long. Our case had been desperate even when I left. I'd been gone over half a year, and I had no word, no hint of what horrors the people I loved might be facing. Those thoughts had been growing stronger and more troubling to me for weeks now, through all the last days of the journey with my comrades. Now they swept back at me so strongly that I felt I would choke on them.

"I can't stay," I said hoarsely. "You'll just have to resurrect yourself another Man. I'm sorry."

I got to my feet and walked down the slope to the entrance of Svip's cave antechamber. Svip stayed crouched beside the cookfire. He didn't follow me, but when I reached the cave entrance he yelled out, "Wait!"

I turned back to face him. "I'm leaving," I said. "Now. For your own good, don't follow me."

I was not proud of myself as I swam away from Svip's house once again.

I had not behaved myself fittingly here, and I knew it – certainly not in a manner becoming to the son of Gondor's Steward. As I swam, I tried to force the anger out of myself with each stroke of my arms through the water. I was angry at myself, at Svip, at everything – at this whole pointless quest that had lured me away from my home just when Gondor needed me most. Surging upward, I allowed myself to imagine that instead of slicing through the water I was hacking up the bodies of the people I blamed most for all of this: Elrond of Rivendell, Gandalf Mithrandir the grey mischief-maker, cursed arrogant Aragorn the Ranger, with all of their eloquent, myth-spinning nonsense. Why had I ever listened to them, let myself get caught up in this fools' mission to walk into the realm of the Enemy and try to drop his Ring down the Mountain of Fire?

If they insisted on committing themselves to this foolishness, why on earth had I not left them to it? Let them jaunt into the arms of Sauron and his minions, if they cared to. I should have left Rivendell the day after I got there, the moment they started planning this errant idiocy.

I broke through the water, once more gasping in the harsh, cold air.

The sun was rising over the trees on the eastern shore. I turned away from it, swimming again to the west.

Even now, I wasn't free of it. I couldn't now turn my steps toward home, as I had meant to when we camped below Amon Hen. This morning I had the chore of scaling the cliff face beside Rauros – by the old North Stair if it still existed and I could find it; otherwise just up the rocks – searching our last campsite and our battleground, and finding out, if I could, what had happened to my companions. It seemed as much a fool's errand as did all of the rest of this, and I almost hoped I would find no trace of them. Then I could go home, assuring myself that I had done all I could. But it wouldn't be true. I had to find them, somehow, whatever it took. I had given my word to stand by them, and now I must hold to my oath. Although, I assured myself, if I did manage to find them and be of some use to them, the moment they were out of their current peril I would tell Lord Aragorn exactly what I thought of him, knock out a few of his teeth, and leave them to their madness and go home as fast as my legs could take me.

I was so caught up in my anger, I paid scarcely any notice as I successfully caught hold of one of the fallen trees jutting into the River, negotiated my way along it, and reached the shallow water once more.

Before long my feet were planted on the shore. I shoved my dripping hair out of my face, and grimly regarded the slope at the edge of the Falls.

This was not going to be any fun at all. But neither would it get any better the longer I put it off.

I wrung a little of the water from out of my sleeves, emptied the water out of my helm that I had hanging from my belt, adjusted the sword belt so it lay more comfortably on my back, and began to trudge toward the trees and the hill.

As I stomped along, I tried to ignore the unsettling sensation that I was walking in the wrong direction.

All through our journey over these past weeks, one thought at least had helped to sustain my patience amid hardships and humiliations. We were heading toward Gondor. There was still a chance that Aragorn would hold true to his word and accompany me to the White City, little though I believed that this supposed king would be any real help to us. I had scant faith left in the cursed riddle or prophecy that had sent me seeking for Imladris and the wisdom of the Elves. But yet if there was any chance that Aragorn and his broken sword of legend could help turn back the tide of darkness from our shores, then all this trouble and foolishness would have been worth it.

Even if it should prove that Aragorn and the others did not turn their path to Minas Tirith, I had always been able to glean comfort from the fact that I was heading toward home. If they did not choose to go with me, I would give them what aid I could while our roads were the same, and then turn west and south, to my own land.

But now I had turned my back toward Gondor, and even if my path lay northward for only a day or two, I could not shake the grim feeling that something was terribly wrong. That somehow, perhaps, my people needed me more than ever, and I was deserting them by pursuing this mad quest and trying to aid fools who cared more for the cryptic utterances of Elven hermits than they did for words of good sense from a comrade with whom they had fought side by side.

_Stop it,_ I ordered myself. _Stop thinking, Boromir, and just walk_.

And then I stopped walking, as well. I froze in my tracks, about ten feet away from the edge of the trees.

From the forest ahead of me I smelled wood smoke. I heard the harsh, guttural language of the Orcs.

While I was brooding over the injustices of my life, I had nearly walked straight into an Orc war party.


	3. Chapter Three: A Walk in the Hills

_Chapter Three: A Walk in the Hills _

I would have cursed myself for my stupidity, but there wasn't the time.

I could not yet see Orcs amid the trees, and I could hope that they had not yet noticed me, either.

I risked a hasty glance behind me. I could backtrack and make my way into the trees, but I did not know which portions of the woods around me held Orcs, and I might just end up sneaking into their midst.

The nearest outcropping of rocks was about thirty yards behind me along the shore. I might reach them before any of the Orcs caught sight of me, and from there I could slip back into the River, if necessary. Hiding has never been my favourite option, but Orcs do not generally travel in small numbers, and I had no desire to be slain by the loathsome brutes twice.

I had just formed the plan to retreat to the rocks, when a squat, burly Orc in black scale mail walked out from the trees right in front of me.

I don't know if he meant to relieve himself in the River, try to catch some fish for breakfast, or if he had an un-Orcly desire to watch the sunrise. Whatever it was, it cost him his life.

His eyes widened and his yellow-fanged mouth opened in amazement as he saw me. Before he could manage a yell, I stepped in toward him, yanking my sword from its scabbard and driving it through the Orc's throat.

I grabbed hold of him with my left hand as he sank down, hoping I could lower him to the ground without undue noise and still make my retreat before the rest of the Orcs were alerted to my presence. The plan failed. As I was lowering my first enemy, a second Orc appeared from the woods behind him.

He yelled a warning. An instant later I had dropped his fellow and swung my borrowed sword at him, lopping off his head.

Outlandish Orcish shouts rose from the woods. I heard the crashes of heavy bodies rushing through leaves and undergrowth. A conch shell horn voiced its mournful cry. I saw dark shapes moving between the trees.

All hope of escape irretrievably lost, I yelled "Gondor!" at the top of my lungs, and charged to meet them.

As I ran at them, it occurred to me that at least the sword hadn't yet fallen apart.

The next Orc and I nearly smashed into each other. He was swinging a battleaxe around his head, but before he could bring it down on me I sliced my sword diagonally across his torso, almost splitting him in two.

Two more Orcs were running toward me. The one a few feet ahead of his comrade had a spear levelled at my midsection, which I managed to seize hold of in my left hand and twist around, yanking him to me and spitting him on my sword.

The second of these two shouted something in their uncouth tongue and rushed me while I was still pulling my sword free from his companion. He brandished a gleaming scimitar in each hand. I shoved the corpse of his fellow into the Orc's path, then while he was stumbling backward I plunged the spear I had seized into this latest Orc's gut.

The conflict had carried me a few feet into the woods. I could not tell how many Orcs might be left, but I could still hear their shouting from among the dark, dawn-lit trees.

I saw a flash of sunlight reflected off armour, as an Orc stepped out from between two trees and let fly an arrow that whirred past me half an inch from my neck.

_No,_ I thought. _I'm not going to die like that again._ I rushed the Orc archer while he was nocking a second arrow to his bow, and plunged my sword into him up to the hilt.

It took me a moment to yank the sword free from him again. Another arrow flew at me from somewhere to my right, lodging in a tree trunk behind me. Betting that I could reach this archer as well before he could fire again, I charged in the direction from which the arrow had come.

The ground sloped down abruptly into a depression in the earth. I skidded a little on the slope, dirt and dead leaves flying under my feet. Impressions flashed in on my senses: a campfire, disordered piles of bedding on the ground, and two Orcs retreating into the hollow as I stormed down the slope at them.

Half by intent and half because he was in my way and I had too much momentum to stop myself, I launched myself at the Orc who was drawing back his bow to fire at me once more. I smashed into him and bore him down to the ground. He dropped his bow and grasped hold of my sword arm, holding it away from him in a grip so strong that I feared the bones in my forearm might be about to snap.

As we struggled I heard the Orc standing beside us gasp out in the Common Tongue, "You! The warrior! But we killed you!"

I was scrabbling with my left hand to find something to use against my opponent, to make him loose his grip on my arm. My fingers closed around his arrow, fallen free of the bow when I hurled him onto the ground. The Orc snarled up at me, his foul, hot breath nearly choking me as it hit my nostrils. I felt along the arrow until I was sure where the point was, then I seized hold of the arrow and stabbed it down into his throat.

The Orc thrashed beneath me, blood bubbling from his mouth. His crushing grip fell from my sword arm, and I surged to my feet again, facing what seemed to be the last of my opponents.

He brandished a scimitar in one hand and a vicious, gleaming black dagger in the other, but he seemed almost to have forgotten that he held any weapons at all. He was staring at me in what appeared to be terror, and he insisted in choking tones, "No! You are dead!"

I cannot say that I recognised this Orc in particular, but his words were enough to reveal his identity. He had been among the Orc troops that we fought above the Falls. He might have shot some of the arrows that stole my life.

I yelled "Gondor!" again and leapt at the terrified Orc. As I hit him he fell backward into the edge of the campfire. Screeching and twisting away from the flame, he fatally turned his attention away from me, until I plunged my sword through his right arm and pinned him to the ground.

I planted myself on top of him, adding my weight to the sword that held him down. He had dropped both sword and dagger, and I took up the dagger, bringing it close to his face as I smiled down on him.

The Orc hissed again, as if he'd forgotten how to say anything else, "We killed you, warrior. You are dead."

"So I am," I grinned at him. "But I have returned, to take you back with me."

He whispered, "No."

"Tell me," I said mildly, starting to slice off chunks of skin from his neck. "What happened in the battle by the Falls? Where are my companions?"

He snarled and tried to kick up at me. I moved the dagger to place it just over his right eye.

I breathed at him, "Tell me what I wish to know, and I will kill you quickly and send you to your ancestors. But mark me. Make me wait for my answers and I will seize your soul. You will wander forever in the grey mists of the barrow world, as my slave."

The Orc gave a sobbing growl. I brought down the dagger a fraction of an inch, feeling it dig into his eyeball.

"Tell me. What happened? When the Horn of Gondor was silenced and I slew no more of you, what followed?"

He gasped out, "We took the halflings."

"Which halflings?" I snarled. "How many?"

"Two. The two who fought beside you."

"Where are they?"

"I don't know," he hissed. I twisted the dagger in his eyeball, and he squealed and repeated, in a yell, "I don't know! Cursed White Hand Isengarders. They said they must take the halflings to their master. They were ours to kill, in payment for our chief, but the Isengard bastards took them."

Chill horror raced through me at the name of Isengard. But I did not have time for horror. I forced my voice to remain steady as I asked, "Are they still alive?"

The Orc's voice was going frantic with pain. "They were – when I saw them last. The White Hands said – they had orders from their master, to kill the rest of you but take the halflings alive."

"What of the others?" I demanded. "My other companions? Tell me!"

"I don't know! I never saw them. I only saw the two halflings, I swear it!"

"Why are you here? Are there more of you?"

He sobbed. "Fought – with the Isengarders. Would not give us the halflings. Going home – to Moria. We divided our forces – for more chance of finding enemies to kill. For our chief slain in the Mine – so he does not go alone."

"Rest easy," I told him. "Your chief will not be alone." I yanked the dagger from his eye and plunged it down into his heart.

When the Orc was silent, I sat down on the ground beside his corpse. I tugged my sword from his arm, cleaning it with a handful of leaves.

Merry and Pippin had been taken. A snatch of memory came to me as I thought of it. I remembered clutching at one of the arrows that impaled my chest, and staring in despair as Merry and Pippin, still struggling, were borne away under the arms of two Orcs like squalling babes being carried off by their nurses.

The rush of anguish I had felt then came back to me as well. Merry and Pippin had been taken, and I had failed them.

I had failed them all.

I had not remembered it before, I think, because I had wanted so desperately for it not to be true. I'd wanted to hold on to hope for as long as I could, to keep hoping that Aragorn and the others had reached the two Hobbits in time.

I propelled myself to my feet and sheathed my sword. The sword had done well this morning; I would have to come up with some appropriate name for it, but at the moment I couldn't think of any.

It was time to get moving again. Time and past.

The fate of the young halflings worried me, but that was all the more reason to act swiftly, and not sit here thinking thoughts of gloom.

I glanced down at my last opponent, and had to grin as the thought occurred to me: _Not every Man has the chance to avenge his own death. _

The sun, rising higher over the eastern bank, glinted through the trees.

It had been a good morning thus far. I had stumbled on a nest of Orcs and still lived, and I had removed eight more of the vile beasts from our shores.

Most important, I knew now where my journey must take me next.

I looked around the hollow. I would have to be more careful. Even if these Orcs were truly the entirety of their party, there were likely more of them around. The bedding, packs and weaponry scattered about seemed only sufficient to supply around the same number as I had killed, but from what my informant had said there were probably more Moria Orcs in the vicinity, seeking victims to kill for their chieftain's entourage. These Orcs I had met must have stopped in camp for the day, to avoid travelling in the sunlight. They had probably been half asleep, but I would do well not to expect that all I might encounter would be so easy to conquer.

A cooking pot had been knocked over when my last Orc fell into the fire, and I grimaced on seeing the unidentifiable chunks of meat that spilled out of it. I ought to eat something, I knew, but I was certainly not going to touch any of the Orcs' breakfast, torn from who knew what creature's body. Svip's cooking looked appetizing by comparison.

Well, I would be heading into the lands of the Rohirrim, and likely I would run into some of their herders, or the troops who guard the borders. I had little doubt that I would find someone willing to give food to a hungry traveller. The Horselords are usually generous to wanderers through their realm, at least when the wanderer hails from Gondor.

Still, it might be days before I encountered any of them. I looked around again, and noticed a bow and a well-stocked quiver lying atop one heap of bedding. The bow is not my weapon of choice, but I can use it if I have to, and I better fancied my chances of shooting a rabbit or such creature, than of catching it with my bare hands or chasing it down with a sword.

Crossing to the Orc's bedroll, I added bow and quiver to my armament. After a moment's consideration I walked back to my late informant, and tugged the dagger from out of his heart. A brief investigation revealed the dagger's sheath on his belt, which I unfastened and removed. After cleaning the dagger I sheathed it and fastened it to my own belt, the golden belt of Lórien. I smiled as I imagined the Elves' distaste, if they knew that an Orcish blade now hung from a piece of their handiwork.

Then I climbed out of the hollow and set out through the forest, keeping my path, as close as I could reckon it, due west.

A hundred miles or so lay between me and the Entwade fords, and from there, perhaps another hundred to Isengard, where it nestled beneath the Gap of Rohan.

The journey ahead should be easy enough, I told myself. As such journeys went. The land should not be difficult. I would have some hills to scale at the first, as I climbed out from the valley of the Anduin, but after that it would be mostly flat land, crossing the plains of Entwash and Isen. I should have little trouble, so long as I kept my bearings and did not wander north into Fangorn or south into the Mouths of Entwash.

I shook my head ruefully, remembering my boasts to Lord Celeborn that I would have no difficulty leading the company across Rohan's wilderness. Now I had the chance to live up to my words. Not just the chance, I told myself, but the duty. For any hours I spent wandering lost, might be the hours that meant the deaths of Meriadoc and Peregrin.

I hoped I was not the only one tracking the halflings' captors. Hopefully Aragorn and the rest were a day or two's march ahead of me. My dislike for the Ranger had not blinded me to the fact that he cared for all of the Hobbits. I was sure he would never willingly leave them to their fates.

And yet …

I knew Aragorn believed in the Ringbearer's quest, with all the fervour of fanaticism. If he thought that by deserting Merry and Pippin, he could buy the time necessary to secure the Ring's destruction – might he have done it?

No. That was foolishness. Aragorn had also shown himself bound by Frodo's decisions, and Frodo would never sacrifice his friends, even if by taking the time to save them he might jeopardise his quest.

Would he?

It did not matter. Either the others were ahead of me, and I would hopefully catch up in time to be of some use to them – or I was the only hope that Merry and Pippin had left. Either way, I had to reach them as quickly as possible. And I would not ease the problem in the slightest by thinking about it.

At least, if my Orc informant spoke true, Saruman's orders would keep Merry and Pippin alive until they reached Isengard.

But then?

Saruman must have ordered that the halflings be taken alive because he knew that one of them carried the Ring. When he discovered that neither Merry nor Pippin was the Ringbearer, their lives would have no value to him.

I vowed, _If he kills them – or gives them to his Orcs – I will dismantle his precious tower until not one stone stands upon another. I will destroy him, I do not care if it kills me and I have to come back from the dead again to accomplish it_.

My path had been taking me steadily upward. The slope was a good deal gentler than it would have been had I scaled to the top of Rauros, with or without the North Stair. But still when I turned to look back at the territory behind me, I saw the Great River glimmering far below, like a belt of silver stretched out over the land.

The trees were gradually thinning out, and the land getting more rocky. It was developing into a beautiful day: the air still chill with the last breaths of the winter, but holding a definite hint of spring. There had been some clouds hanging in the sky when the day began, but as the sun climbed higher it had burned away the cloud.

It did not take me long to fall back into the rhythm of the voyage. I seemed to have spent the entire last half-year walking across Middle Earth. It would be pleasant, some day, for it to stop, but yet at the same time, it had become increasingly comfortable. At least while I kept moving forward, I could keep hold of the conviction that I was accomplishing something. And when I focused on the landscape, the ground, the sound of my feet on the earth, it gave me something to do other than think about all the problems I did not know how to solve.

I had, at least, a goal on which to keep focused, and one that I thought I had some chance of accomplishing. And rescuing the two halflings was a goal in which I could believe – not like the accursed mission to destroy the Ring, of which I'd had to keep fighting to convince myself, over and over again. That every now and then I talked myself into believing, but that most of the time sounded like the rankest madness.

As the morning wore on, I felt almost cheerful. Certainly closer to cheerful than I had been for many weeks – since long before I had died.

I should have known that my good mood was too pleasant to last.

I began to notice that I was growing cold.

It had been creeping in on my senses for some time, but I kept shrugging it off. But once, when I stopped in an open meadow to look around, it swept in at me the instant I ceased walking.

The cold seemed to be spreading through me from the inside, as if the very blood in my veins had decreased in temperature.

It made no sense. I had been getting colder the farther I walked, yet the sun was directly overhead, beaming down on me with all the generosity of its noon heat. There was nothing to stop it from reaching me here, no clouds and at this point not even any trees. I could feel the sun's heat on my skin, but it seemed like something alien that could not bring any warmth to me. I wondered if the chill could have come from wearing wet clothes in the February air, but that didn't make any sense, either. My clothing seemed entirely dried by now, from the sunlight and the heat of my exertions. Yet even with my clothes dry again, I was just getting colder and colder.

I walked on, telling myself I was imagining it. I just had to keep going; the exercise would warm me up. I would run into someone who'd give me some food; I should have expected some ill effects from hacking up Orcs and then setting out on this hike when I'd eaten nothing but a couple of bites of leaf stew. If I kept going, everything would turn out all right.

But it did not.

My legs seemed to be growing heavier. It was an ever-increasing effort to lift them from the ground. And I could barely feel them; they felt distant as if both of my legs had fallen asleep.

It seemed that I was falling asleep as well. I kept slipping into vague, haunting dreams, only to snap back again to the realisation that I'd only taken a few steps in the time that I thought I should have gone a mile.

In those moments when I was awake, I started to know that I was afraid.

My steps stumbled to a halt again as the land ahead of me rose in another steep incline. I stared up at it, the desperate cold seeming to swamp my being and my feet feeling rooted to the ground.

I felt the beating of my heart, thudding through me. I wondered if it were imagining, or if my heart were truly beating slower than it ought to be. It seemed as if I could feel every beat of it, and the beats were growing farther and farther apart. When they did come, they seemed to shake my entire body.

The thought shot through my mind, _I'm too far away from the River_.

_It's insane,_ I thought. _I won't accept it_.

I'd just rest a little, catch my breath, then I'd go on.

I couldn't have walked more than ten miles at the most. That was nothing. Hunger and exertion shouldn't be doing this to me; I'd gone far longer than this without eating, and it had not stopped me before. Of course, I should make allowances for the fact that I'd been dead. Who knew what that could do to my body's ability to function?

Who knew? I could think of one person who claimed to know.

I heard the voice of Svip, insisting, "If you leave here, you'll die."

With agonising slowness, my body seeming to take hours to obey my commands, I turned back to face the River.

I couldn't see it. There were too many trees and hills between us.

I thought, _I have to go back_.

I found myself staring at my feet, wondering if I could make them move.

A snarl of frustration and rage escaped me.

It was a joke. I refused to accept that I could battle Orcs while I had arrows protruding from my chest, yet I could not walk ten miles from the River.

My heart thumped with a force that seemed it would shake me apart.

I had to go back.

I took a step back down the hillside, then another.

On the third step, I fell. Distantly, I heard my grunt of shock as I hit the ground.

I think I lost consciousness, then I came to again with my face pressed into dirt and pine needles.

I tried to force myself back up, my fingers clawing into the earth.

The thought came to me, _Boromir Son of Denethor, you are so very stupid._

My brother had told me that. Repeatedly.

And a lot of women had told me that.

Now it seemed that all of them had been right.

_You are very, very stupid_.

If Svip had told me once, he'd told me a hundred times. If I left the River, I'd die.

Why did I have to wait to believe him until I'd tried it out for myself?

I'd managed to shove myself partway off the ground. With a ridiculous amount of effort, I started to crawl back down the hill.

I wondered desperately, even as I inched down the hillside, _What do you think you're going to accomplish? _

Did I really think that I could crawl ten miles?

Then again, why not try?

Better to die crawling, than to not try at all.

Of course, there was all the noble-sounding stuff I had told myself. That if I wasn't out there helping my country and my friends, I might as well be dead.

All well and good. But when it came to a choice between just lying here and dying, and doing everything I could to stay alive, there was no debate about which I would pick.

A twisting tree root protruded from the ground near my right hand. I forced myself to take hold of it, and pulled my body another few feet down the slope.

I was so very cold. Even on Caradhras, in the snow, it had never seemed this cold.

I thought that I wouldn't mind dying, if only I could get warm.

Some time later, I don't know how long, there came a voice.

"Come on. Here, come on. Drink this. Here, wake up."

I think I groaned.

Someone had taken hold of my shoulders, urging me up. I blearily remember once more pushing myself up out of the dirt.

"Come on, drink it. It's good; it's from the River. Come on, please!"

I must have blacked out again. And then the voice was yelling at me.

"Boromir Son of Denethor Steward of Gondor! Wake up and drink this now!"

I somehow managed to sit up. Whoever it was put a wineskin or something to my mouth, and water was pouring over my lips. I gasped, choked a little, then swallowed.

It was like water, and the reviving draughts of the Elves, and all the finest alcohol I had ever tasted, rolled into one.

I couldn't see, but I grabbed hold of the wineskin and swallowed, again and again.

"Wait. Stop. Here, stop, leave a little for later. It's a long way back."

I blinked and found myself looking into the long, green, worried face of Svip.

I groaned as the water creature took the wineskin from my still numb fingers. "Svip. How did you get here?"

"Same way as you. I walked. Only your legs are longer. And I can't keep up the shape shifting for more than a couple of miles from the River."

That comment meant absolutely nothing to me, but I was too worn out to even attempt to think about it. I felt like I was about to fall asleep again.

"Oh, no," said Svip, "no, no, no, no, no. Get up. We've got to get back."

I moaned.

"Come on, get up," the little being insisted. "We're going back to the River, now."

I could have wept from exhaustion, but I staggered to my feet. It seemed that doing as he said was the only way to make Svip leave me alone.

He was barely even tall enough for me to lean on him, and I didn't want to risk putting much of my weight on him, anyway. So he kept scampering back and forth as I started my unsteady progress down the hill; ranging ahead and running back to check on me like an excitable dog, and gingerly taking hold of my arm or warning me of the various obstacles in my path. All the while he kept up a stream of comments and questions.

"It'll get easier as you get closer to the River, really it will. I'll give you the rest of the water when we're halfway down, all right? Watch out, there's a root in the way. You'll stay for a while this time, won't you? When do you usually sleep? You slept through most of the day and the night, but that's probably because you just died? What do you like to eat? There really is some very nice fish in the River. I like it raw with a little bit of oakweed, but it won't be any trouble to cook it for you. Did you kill all those Orcs? You didn't get wounded, did you? I know they have poisoned arrows sometimes. I hope you won't die again; I'm not sure it'll work, bringing you back twice. I mean, it might not bring back all of you. If you see what I mean. That is, it might not be really you. Were those the same Orcs who killed you before? Are they chasing you? Look out for that boulder!"

I had seen the rock in question, but misjudged the distance to it. I stubbed one foot on it and lost my balance, not exactly falling, but sitting down, hard. Once down, it seemed entirely too complicated to get up again. I sat there on the boulder, with the beat of my heart pounding achingly through my head.

Svip flitted around me like an agitated humming bird. "You shouldn't rest yet, we're not close enough. Come on, we've got to keep moving. Oh, dear. I didn't want to give you the rest of the water yet, there isn't much left, but if I let you have the water, will you promise to get up? You're not listening to me, are you? Oh, dear. You look terrible. I'm sure you aren't supposed to look that pale. Look, stand up first and then I'll give you that water. All right? Are you listening? If you can hear me, say something!"

I groaned, burying my head in my hands. I felt like I had a mortal wound combined with the king of all hangovers. "Svip, please, shut up," I grated. "I can't take any more questions."

That had been the wrong thing to say if I wanted Svip to stop talking. He sounded positively delighted. "Ha, well. I'll keep asking questions until you start walking again." Svip paused dramatically to let that sink in, then launched into, "Did dying hurt a lot? How many Orcs have you killed? Who buried you? How old are you? Do you remember being dead? Were those Orcs chasing you? Are there more Orcs on the west shore than there used to be? Have you seen the ocean? Where did you get the Elven boat? Have you met lots of Elves? Was my tea really terrible? Why do you want to leave? Where were you going? Do you like wine? I've got some bottles, but some of them have been underwater hundreds of years, do you think they'll still be good? How do you like your fish?"

I jumped up and started down the hill again before my brain had even stopped spinning. "I'm walking, Svip!" I yelled to the water being who was somewhere behind me. He scampered to catch up.

To Svip's credit, he did stop asking me questions for a while. And ever so slowly, it seemed my progress was growing easier. Warmth was starting to creep back into me through layer on layer of cold. The length of time between spells when my vision blacked out seemed to be getting longer.

I began counting my steps, starting at one again every time I lost count. I lost count at least eight times, usually somewhere in the hundreds, though once I had made it to over 2,500.

The afternoon was wearing out. The shadows in the woods were growing steadily darker as we drew toward the long night of the dying winter.

When I lost count of my footsteps for the eighth or ninth time, I stopped to lean against a tree. One branch was at the right level for me to rest my head against. The rough bark pressing into my face was wonderful, simply because I could feel it. I could feel the roughness where it dug into my skin, and that small sensation helped reassure me that I was indeed alive.

Svip interrupted my meditations on tree bark. He pushed the wineskin into my hand, saying, "You can finish the water if you like. I think we're close enough."

I weighed the wineskin experimentally in my hand. There must be just a few swallows left. I took only two, and corked the skin again. Even those two seemed to go straight to all my senses, sharpening them as if I'd been half asleep before I drank, and had only now woken up.

The next sight I encountered made me wonder if I was dreaming, instead.

I had turned away from the tree to ask Svip if he wanted the wineskin back, and found myself inches away from a big, slate-grey horse.

The horse had its face right in mine, and as I recoiled with a startled exclamation its mouth opened and the voice of Svip emerged, "There, I said we were close enough. Do you want a ride?"

To say I eyed him warily would be accurate, as far as it goes. The horse's mouth didn't seem to move as the words came out, but the voice was definitely Svip's. I croaked out something like, "How do you do that?"

The grey horse's left shoulder moved in what was apparently a shrug. "All of us can," he said. "It's for luring unwary travellers into the water."

"Oh," I muttered. "Great."

He didn't look quite right for a horse, I thought now as I studied him more carefully. The location and shape of the eyes were definitely wrong, more like Svip's own than those of any horse. And something about the proportions of his body was wrong, too. Nonetheless, the effect was astounding. Now, I thought, I really had slipped into a fireside story, complete with miraculous returns from the dead and a talking horse.

"Come on, get on," Svip urged. "We can go a lot faster."

"Are you sure you can hold me?" I asked. "I'm pretty heavy."

"Don't worry. If you get too heavy I'll just drop you."

"Thanks," I growled.

I am not entirely comfortable with horses at the best of times. My relatives of the Rohirrim tell me it's a weakness in my character, and doubtless they are correct. Be that as it may, I have never quite been happy entrusting my well-being and dignity to the back of an animal that might take a notion to throw me at any moment. My uneasiness was not decreased by the knowledge that this particular horse spent most of its time as a creature about three and a half feet tall and weighing no more than fifty pounds. The uncanny effect of hearing Svip's voice emerge from the horse without its mouth moving made me wonder if the horse was even solid. My mind conjured the peculiar idea that Svip was actually somewhere inside there, crouched in the belly of a gigantic horse-shaped balloon.

"Come on," Svip said, "I'll give you plenty of warning if I'm going to drop you."

Half-heartedly I sought for a way to get out of this, but the truth was that I didn't want to walk the rest of the way back to the River, either. I wasn't sure that trusting myself to a shape-shifting horse was better than walking, but I supposed it would be rudeness to my host not to give it a try.

Gritting my teeth and wishing that Svip had included a saddle and stirrups in his shape-shifting, I boosted myself inelegantly onto the horse's back.

"There," Svip's voice came cheerfully, "that wasn't so bad, was it? Hold on tight."

For want of reins I wound one hand in the horse's black mane, and he started picking his way around the rocks and trees.

I had to admit, the return trip went faster this way, and it didn't seem to have any drawbacks beyond the standard uncomfortable jolting that would have come from riding any horse bareback down a hill. I couldn't help imagining that he would change back into the usual Svip at any second and send me flying, but he did not. The best feature of all of this was probably the fact that worrying whether Svip would throw me almost made me forget how hideous I felt.

The sun was low in the sky by the time we made it back to Anduin's shore, disappearing in the trees behind us. Svip trotted out of the woods, and stopped at the point where the grasses along the shoreline gave way to mud and rocks. "All right," he announced, still sounding cheerful, if a little out of breath, "you can get off me now."

I bit back several sarcastic comments and concentrated on dismounting without landing on my posterior. It wasn't until I had my feet on the ground again that I suddenly realised how much better I felt. I wasn't cold. I felt almost normal, except for the aching exhaustion in every part of me.

Gingerly I patted Svip's big grey shoulder. "Thank you," I said. Then I couldn't say anything else, because I was too busy staring at the waters of Anduin. I felt that I had to get into the River that instant or I might still keel over dead, from the sheer anguish of not being in that water.

I managed not to break into a run, but only barely. I waded a few paces into the water between two tall, outcropping rocks, then I could not resist any longer. I sat down in the water, then lay back and stretched out, feeling whole for the first time since the coldness had hit me in the forest.

The familiar roaring of Rauros blended with waterbirds' wild calls. I sighed, revelling in the sensation of the soft breeze on my face and the water lapping around my body and caressing its way through my hair.

Suddenly I felt Svip's hand close around my arm – his hand, not his hoof – and heard his urgent, whispered tones.

"Don't sit up. Don't move. There are Orcs on the east shore."


	4. Chapter Four: A Journey Continued

_Chapter Four: A Journey Continued _

Orcs on the east shore.

I hissed to Svip, "Have they seen us?" As soon as I'd asked it, my mind answered, _Of course they have. That's just the way these things work. _

"I think so," Svip whispered back. "They probably don't know what to make of us, since we were a Man and a horse and then the horse disappeared."

"Tell me what you saw."

"Five of them, coming out of the woods. There's more in the trees. The ones on the shore were pointing towards us, then they kept turning around and talking to the ones behind them."

I thought out loud, "If you change shape again, I could ride you back into the trees, make sure they notice us. Then, when we're out of sight, we can sneak into the water again, swim back here underwater. We don't want to risk leading them straight to your house."

"I don't think they'd find it anyway," Svip said. "Orcs don't like water much, do they? The only ones I've seen in the River are dead ones. Anyhow," he added, "the River usually protects its people. If it sees intruders trying to get into the house, it'll usually wash them away."

"Usually," I echoed, not liking the sound of that much. "So will the River see them?"

"Probably," shrugged Svip. "You can't really predict the River."

I sighed. "I don't want to be responsible for Orcs finding your house, Svip." _Orcs_, I thought, _or any other minion of Evil_. It occurred to me with a grim, chilled feeling, that even if Orcs had a problem with water, the creature Gollum didn't. We'd known he was close behind us at times in our journey above the Falls. The most likely course for him would have been to continue following Frodo and the others; he was probably nowhere near here. But I had no wish to wager Svip's life on that theory. And Gollum or no Gollum, if the Enemy had birds and wolves working for him, who was to say what denizens of the water might be his followers as well?

"Let's risk it," Svip decided. "I don't think they can see us now, anyway. They're running back and forth and they look confused."

So, with Svip crawling and slithering rapidly ahead of me, I rolled onto my front and started creeping through the mud and shallow water like some enormous river worm. No shouts from the opposite bank came to declare that we had been spotted. When we slipped beneath the water and swam downward, it seemed as though we had indeed made good our escape. Though the continual disasters of my voyaging with the Fellowship made me suspect that Svip and I would be sitting down to a cup of tea when some troop of previously unknown River Orcs would come storming into his house and slaughter us.

Once the notion had come to me that Svip's house was at risk from attack, I could not get it out of my mind. The sight of the house's mushroom bubbles glowing below us filled me with foreboding as I swam toward it, for it seemed that the glow was bright enough to lead any attackers straight to us.

I emerged into the air of the cave antechamber a few moments behind Svip, who was crouching on the mud slope watching for me. Climbing out of the water, I asked him, "Do you want to block the entrance? Some of your driftwood should block the door long enough to give us warning if anyone's trying to get in." I was beginning to be less and less happy with the notion that this place did not have a back door. It meant, of course, that we wouldn't have to defend two doors, but it might leave us with no way of getting out, either.

Svip shrugged. "You can if you like. Wait till after I come back, though. I'm going to go catch us some fish. If you'll get the fire going, you can show me how to cook them."

He dived back into the water. I sighed, watching the circles in the water where he had disappeared.

Svip ought to know, I told myself. If he thought he was not at risk here, he was probably right. But of course, just because he had not been attacked before didn't mean that he wouldn't be. After all, he had never had me as a houseguest before.

I made my way to the room where I had first awakened, and collected a selection of the largest and heaviest chunks of wood, which I carried back and piled beside the door between Svip's room and the antechamber. Then I obediently re-kindled the water being's cookfire, working from a smaller pile of wood that sat beside the previous fire's ashes. Conveniently, a flint and steel was also lying beside the firewood; mine was gone with my pack and the rest of its contents.

Svip returned when I had the fire crackling merrily, holding four large river trout together by their tails like some peculiar upside-down bouquet. They were wriggling as he brought them in, and he dispatched them by biting their heads off one by one, needing just one economical chomp to sever each fish's neck. He spat out the heads and they landed in a neat little pile near the fire, his aim perfectly landing each head on top of the others.

I wondered only half jokingly if that might be the explanation for why Svip did not fear attack by Orcs. He clearly had abilities of which I had not yet guessed. Perhaps if the Orcs did storm his house, he would bite off their heads as easily as he had slain the fish. For all I knew, he didn't just have the ability to turn himself into a horse but also into a sea serpent.

I was probably protecting us against nothing but my own imagination, but I piled up my heap of driftwood against the entrance, anyway. Then we turned our attention to dinner – or, Svip turned his attention to it and I tried to do the same, instead of worrying about Orcs and other perils.

Svip sampled one of the fish that I roasted and was very polite about it, but it was obvious he thought it as nasty as I had thought his stew. He excused himself and disappeared deeper into his house, to reappear a few minutes later with five bottles flecked with dried mud, which he deposited on the floor in front of me.

"I haven't tried any of them," he said, "but having a guest deserves a celebration. Open whatever you like." Svip went back to one of the remaining raw fish and munched at it happily while I examined the bottles.

The identities of two of them I could not decipher. They were fashioned of a pale green glazed earthenware that I did not think I had seen before, and I wondered how long they might have been sitting in the River. Perhaps if I showed them to some long-lived being like Lord Elrond, he would inform me that of course, they were obviously the wine bottles manufactured by the vintners of Gilgilad's kingdom, or some such thing. The other three bottles I recognised: the rounded blue form of a Dol Amroth white, the angular shape of a Calenhad whisky bottle, and the seal of the White Tree on the cork of the third bottle, that revealed it as a wine from my own country.

I told myself that the seal had probably failed and the bottle would hold mud and river water. And I should not partake of anything stronger than mud and river water anyway, if I intended to be of any use should the attack I'd been imagining turn into reality. But the chance to taste a wine from my home was too tempting to resist.

I carefully pried off the seal with the dagger I had taken from my last Orc. Svip scampered away again to fetch some drinking vessels while I put the dagger to use as a corkscrew.

Svip apparently did not trust his head for drink, since when he returned he presented a massive jewel-studded gold goblet to me and kept for himself a silver cup shorter than my thumb.

By some miracle, the wine had survived. I had to explain to Svip the custom of clinking one's glasses together and saying "cheers." After the first several cautious sips he must have decided he liked it, for he topped up his cup and then retired with it to his pool, slipping contentedly into the water and propping both his head and the cup on the shore.

Svip looked the happiest of creatures. I felt a deep melancholy descend on me as I eyed the cheerful water being, and sipped at the wine in the bottom of the enormous goblet.

For once, Svip was not asking me any questions. Instead, it was I who had questions that needed answering. I placed the goblet on the ground and bowed my head formally to Svip. I said, "Thank you again for saving my life. Forgive me for asking, but why do you keep doing it?"

He said, "You're part of my collection now. I don't want to lose you."

That last sentiment would have been touching, if it were not for the peculiarity added to it by the first part of his comment.

"But before that?" I prodded. "The first time?"

"Just curious. I've never talked with one of you before. When I found you and saw you hadn't drowned, I figured I'd give it a try." He suddenly looked thoughtful and a little sad, and he slid further downward in his pool, till all I could see was the top of his head. His eyes peeked over the silver cup. "And," he added quietly, "I was lonely. It happens to us a lot, you know. Gets worse and worse over the years, till you – just need someone around to talk to. That's why we've got ways of luring people into the water, you see. I'm not much good at luring, though. I keep thinking it wouldn't be fair. That if I did it I'd be … interrupting the person."

I drank down a swallow of the White Tree wine, wondering how I could reclaim my own interrupted life. "So you figured it'd be all right," I said, "because you weren't interrupting me."

He popped up from the water again and snaked out his dripping arm to pick up the cup and take a drink. "Well," he pointed out, "you'd already been interrupted."

"Yes," I said. I drained the last contents of the goblet and, on reflection, poured myself a second round. But I did not drink from it at once. I clutched at the goblet, its faceted gems digging into my palm. Finally I just put the goblet down.

Everything seemed to be sinking down on me again, with a great weight of hopelessness. All the people I had failed, all the trusts I would be betraying if I did not return home, closed in around me until it seemed the thoughts would crush my heart.

It would have been better, I thought, if Svip had left me dead. At least then I would not have to face this.

Or perhaps I would. With my luck, I would probably have become a ghost. I could see myself haunting my brother and my father, begging them to hear me but never, ever managing to make them realise I was there. And watching, powerless to change anything, as the forces of the Enemy turned Minas Tirith into our country's funeral pyre.

But I was not dead any more.

I was not a ghost, and I was not powerless. Crippled, perhaps, but not incapacitated.

I would again give my enemies cause to fear me.

"Svip," I said, "you said the spell that brought me back was tied to this place. I beg you to tell me the truth. Is it this place itself that I must remain near? Or only the River?"

His gaze flickered down to his silver cup. Svip said, very quietly, "I don't know for sure. But I think – the River."

The words felt like healing balm on an open wound. I asked him, "How far can I go from the River before the distance starts affecting me? Do you know?"

He frowned, then shook his head, looking up at me again. "I've never done this before. How far do you think you went?"

I frowned in my turn. "It must have been five or six miles, before I started sensing anything wrong. Ten miles, probably, when I was falling over."

The desolation I felt a moment before had vanished. In its place came anticipation, almost eagerness.

I thought that I finally knew which course I was meant to follow.

The quest to destroy the Ring was no longer mine. If it ever had been. And as much as I wanted to help Merry and Pippin, I could not follow that path either. Neither Mount Doom nor the fortress of Isengard were anywhere near six miles from the River.

But Minas Tirith was.

The outlying fields and hamlets were likely out of my reach, beyond my supposed ten-mile barrier. But it was only five miles from the River to the Great East Gate of the City. If what I had experienced this day continued to hold true, then certainly all of the eastern side of the hill, and the White Tower itself, should be within my range. I might perhaps run into difficulties on the west side, but if being unable to cross to the western side of our city was the worst I had to face in this, I should count myself absurdly lucky.

I could return to Minas Tirith.

In times of peace it should take four or five days at the most to reach the City by boat from the Falls of Rauros. The journey would probably take me longer now, as I might have to make my way past Orc garrisons at the sites of their recent victories against us. But still, in less than a week – barring other unfortunate incidents with Orcish arrows – I could be home.

I had no way of knowing if Minas Tirith even still stood, or indeed if it were even now under attack. But if fate turned its smile upon me, I would make it back before the Enemy reached our walls.

I could not lead our troops on any expedition against the Shadow, since our men had no need of a commander who could not go ten miles from the River. But I could ask my father for command of the Great Gate. He would grant it, I knew, and I vowed that if I commanded the Gate our enemies would never pass through it.

My first impulse was to leave this very instant. But I had not forgotten what happened the last time I left Svip's house. Or the debt of gratitude I owed to him.

I said, "I will talk with you tonight. We can talk of whatever you wish. I will answer any question of yours to which I know the answer. But I cannot stay longer. I must leave, tomorrow. If it's true that I need only remain close to the River, then I can do that and still return to my home. I have to, Svip. There's no other choice I can make."

I expected more protests from him, but they did not come. He heaved a great sigh that seemed it had to have come from a creature far larger than he was. Then he hopped out from the pool and sat cross-legged at its edge, water cascading off him as he gazed at me solemnly.

Now the questions began. But they were far quieter than those before had been, asked in a low, steady voice instead of being fired off at me like slingshot bolts.

"What are you going back to?" he asked. "Who are the people you keep saying you've failed? What brought you here? Why were you killed?"

I met his gaze and wished he had not asked any of those questions. But I had given my word to answer.

I began my answers with another question. "What do you know of the Shadow in the East?"

He said, "I know it's growing. I know it's getting closer. I've talked with a few Elves who say the Dark Lord from the Old Wars has come back. But I think I would have known even if they hadn't told me. Things just – remind me of how they were then. More and more. There are more Orcs on the shores. The winds sound frightened. I've never seen as many bodies in the River as there are now – not since that time."

I stared at him. "The Old Wars?" I repeated. "When the Dark Lord fought before? You were alive then?" It seemed my fate to keep falling in with beings who'd been old before my ancestors were gleams in their ancestors' eyes.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I was very young, though. I'd only just left my mother's house. I didn't even have a house of my own yet." He shook his head. "But I don't know what's been happening now. I've only heard rumours. And fear. Has it got very bad?"

"Yes," I said. "It's bad. My people, in Gondor, have fought long and hard to hold back the Enemy on the eastern shore. But in this last year he has broken through. His creatures are bolder than we've ever seen them before. Whole farmsteads and villages are slaughtered. Even the cities are starting to see new shadows in their streets. In battle last summer our Men saw a terrible darkness, a – a shadow of fear that broke our forces and nearly destroyed all of us."

The memory of that shadow still chilled my soul, and I decided that I had said enough of it. "In my own lifetime I've seen the Enemy change from an everyday threat we never thought much about, like wolves or disease or bad weather – into the force that dominates all of our lives."

Svip nodded grimly. "I was afraid of that," he said. "It sounds just like before. So what brought you here to the Falls?"

I paused for a while. His latest comment had struck me strangely. Perhaps it was my mistrust and resentment of the Elves, with their ages-long lives and their cursed superior attitudes, that made me start to think badly of Svip just because he was as old as they were. It made me start to wonder if I could really trust him. How did I know who he was, really? Or why he was doing all of this? I only had his word that he had brought me back because he was curious and lonely. How did I know he wasn't a servant of the Dark Lord – perhaps even Gollum himself, since both of them were small and had an affinity to water?

No. That was simply stupid. I'd never seen Gollum; I only knew what Gandalf and Aragorn had said of him – and Sam, when he talked of the log with eyes that had followed us down the River. But neither Gandalf nor Aragorn had mentioned Gollum being green. And Gandalf said he'd originally been a creature akin to Hobbits – I did not think he would have said that, if he was speaking of Svip. Besides, Gollum was thoroughly mad. I did not believe one could say that of Svip. Eccentric, yes, but not insane.

So Svip was not Gollum, but I couldn't know, still, that he was not one of the Enemy's creatures – could I? Perhaps he'd been sent by the darkness, to bring me back from death and – and what? I was surely overestimating my importance if I thought the Enemy cared about me enough to send his creatures after me, when they could be employed instead in hunting down Frodo and the Ring.

I began, still warring with my new suspicion of Svip, "The Enemy had – a weapon, that he used in the Old Wars. My comrades and I were sent on a mission to stop him from regaining that weapon." I stopped there, determined not to use the word "ring." Even if Svip did not belong to the Enemy, how did I know that any careless words of mine would not be heard, even here? Though it was probably a bit late to worry about that now, after I'd been running around a few days ago yelling "Give me the Ring." And it was a safe enough bet that the Dark Lord knew every detail of our plans anyway, since we'd been tripping over crows and wolves and Orcs ever since we left Rivendell.

I sighed. "We were camped above Rauros, trying to decide what route we should take from there. Orcs attacked us. I was killed and two of my comrades, who fought beside me, were captured. I learned where they were taken from the Orcs I fought when I left your house; I was trying to get to them when you found me. I don't know what happened to the others."

Svip asked, "But you can't get to those two now, can you? So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going home," I said. "Sooner or later – probably sooner – the Enemy will strike at Minas Tirith. We're the strongest city on the River, and the defence of all the borderlands is commanded from within our walls. Once we're gone, all the West will be open to him. He knows he has to take us. So I have to be there – to help stop him."

Svip smiled. "Good," he said. "So I'll go with you."

For a moment I couldn't speak. "You'll do what?" I gasped. "Why?"

"You're part of my collection. If you're going to get into trouble, I ought to be there to keep an eye on you."

I did not like the sound of that. I thought, _As if it isn't bad enough having Father and Faramir fuss over every risk I take._ Now I was going to have Svip playing nursemaid as well?

"What about the rest of your collection?" I asked. "Don't you need to keep an eye on it, too?"

"The rest of my collection doesn't keep trying to get itself shot."

I muttered sullenly, "I don't try to get myself shot, it just happens."

It occurred to me that this sounded exactly like the sort of conversation I keep having with my brother. There seemed something wrong in the fact that I should be talking with some little green water being in the same way I talk with Faramir. Though I wasn't sure if that reflected most oddly on the water creature, my brother, or myself.

"You don't want to come," I argued. "It's too dangerous. The Orcs are thick along the shore south of here; last I heard they were crawling all over Cair Andros and Osgiliath. It'll be dangerous reaching Minas Tirith. And even there, you wouldn't be safe. I told you, the City will be a target – if it hasn't fallen already. There's no safety there, the Enemy's forces will be closing in around us. You don't want to be there. It isn't your fight."

Svip cast an angry and haughty look at me. "Isn't it?" he demanded. "If the Shadow takes the west shore – if he takes everything – he'll want the River, too. Just because my house isn't in Minas Tirith, doesn't mean he won't come after it. If he wins, he'll come after everything. Till there's nothing left for him to take and destroy."

I grabbed up the golden goblet and took a sizeable swig. "All right," I said. "So it's your fight. But it's too dangerous. It's ridiculous for you to risk yourself for Minas Tirith, when you're certain to be killed, far from your home. Better to stay here, to defend your house when you need to."

"Did you stay home?" Svip challenged. "Did you or didn't you get killed far away from your home, because you were trying to challenge the Enemy?"

I stared at him. I could think of absolutely nothing to say to that.

He smiled and picked up his silver cup. "I'm going with you," he declared. "It'll be fun. I've never seen a city of Men before. It should be very interesting."

"Yes, it should," I said darkly. "If you live long enough to see it."

He smiled sweetly as he took a sip of the wine. "You're the one who keeps dying," he said. "Not me. We'll see which one of us has the harder time getting there alive."

I groaned, and drained my goblet.

For about the thousandth time in the past several months, I was wondering how I had got myself into this.

We set out the next morning, at around two hours past dawn.

I had spent much of the night trying to argue him out of accompanying me. But Svip proved immovable. Finally I gave up the fight, and we turned to discussion of how we would best undertake the journey. As the night neared its noon, I fetched a couple of armloads of bedding from the room where I had awakened from death, and constructed myself a new bed near the cookfire in Svip's chamber. When I fell asleep, Svip was still puttering to and fro about his house, making whatever preparations he needed for the journey.

Our night's discussion had led to the decision that we would head south in my Elven funeral boat. After a not very appealing breakfast of more of that blasted tea and some dried river plants pounded and shaped into dusty-tasting little cakes, I swam with Svip into the grey, foggy light of the early morning water. Svip had told me in those first hours after my resurrection that he had my boat moored outside, but I had pictured it being somewhere above the water level. Instead I found that it was tethered by a rope lashed through the silver ring at its prow and tied around the trunk of a dead tree lying on the riverbed, on the other side of Svip's house from the door and the cave. The boat seemed striving to reach the surface, bobbing with the current, with the rope stretched so taut that it looked about to snap.

Svip untied the boat while I held it down so the current would not tear it from us. Then we swam it up to the surface with one of us on each side of the prow, though I had the sensation that it was steering us rather than we steering it. We popped up into the chill morning air, and to my surprise, managed to manoeuvre the boat to the shore, between the two rocks where I had stretched out in the water the afternoon before. Perhaps, being Elven handiwork, the boat had done that work for us as well.

Between the rocks the boat was more or less hidden from prying eyes, except for those that might lurk directly opposite. I stayed with the boat, while Svip swam below again to fetch the gear he planned on bringing.

I tipped the boat over and emptied out the water that sloshed inside it, then I occupied the time while waiting for Svip by loading the boat with some of the equipment I had carried strapped to my back. First was a battered but serviceable shield I had picked out from Svip's pile of weaponry, to replace my own shield which had either not been included in my funeral goods or had not made it into the hands of Svip. There followed the bow and quiver I had taken from the Orcs' camp, and two oddly mismatched paddles from Svip's collection, that I had jammed under my sword belt on my back to keep them out of the way while I swam. The larger paddle was made of some polished, night black wood, and the smaller was of a pale golden colour, carved with its handle in the shape of a water bird's head.

While I waited, a temptation hit me. I could leave now, just jump in the boat and paddle away while Svip was still collecting his luggage. It was an attractive prospect, to get out of here without him and without having to worry that the journey would lead to his death. This stretch of my voyage, I thought, would likely end as badly for me as the last one had. I'd be so busy trying to keep Svip from getting slaughtered by Orcs that I would not guard my own back well enough, and I'd once again end up shot full of arrows.

But I did not leave. I had a strong suspicion that Svip could swim faster than I could paddle, even with whatever magic the Elven boat might possess. And I did not want to endure the guilt that he would lay upon me, if I tried to leave without him.

So I just sat in the shallow water beside the boat, keeping a wary eye out for Orcs.

When Svip reappeared, I was hard pressed not to laugh.

He had arrayed himself in items from his collection. Around his waist he had wrapped a leather and silver belt a good deal too large for him, which he'd had to pass twice around himself to keep it from hanging down like a tail. A formerly jewel-encrusted short sword in a crimson-dyed leather scabbard hung from the belt, causing me concern over whether the belt would come unwrapped from around itself and drop off of him, sword and all. I would have to make sure that belt was secured, so the whole lot didn't drop off in the middle of an Orc attack – though I had no idea if Svip could use a sword anyway, and he might well be better off without it. He had also jammed into his belt a small, gleaming axe, that looked as if some Dwarf had forged it for his toddler. On his head Svip bore a battered helmet, a steel cone with metal wings protruding from its sides. The wings must once have been gilded, but now only a few flecks of gilt remained. Unsurprisingly the helm was too large for him, and if it had slipped another quarter inch downward it would have blocked his eyes. He had a leathern pack slung on his back, and the final touch was a wide selection of wineskins, canteens and bottles, hanging by their straps and handles from Svip's shoulders and making him look like the display rack in a wine merchant's market stall. If, that is, the display rack had been sporting a winged helmet.

"For River water," Svip explained, as he unloaded his cargo into the boat. "In case we have to go inland."

With difficulty I restrained my mirth. I reminded myself that when we'd left Rivendell I had thought the Hobbits, too, looked like little boys playing soldiers. And yet they had given a good accounting of themselves in Moria and against the Orcs at Rauros. Although none of the halflings, I argued with myself, had looked as ludicrous as Svip did.

"You ready to leave?" I asked him, hoping he would suddenly decide that he had changed his mind after all.

He cast a look back at the water under which his house nestled unseen, but then he just grinned excitedly and nodded. "We'd better get going," he said. "It'll take a couple of days to get there, won't it?"

"Four, at least," I said. "It's upwards of two hundred miles."

Svip did seem to quail a little at that, glancing back again toward his house with a wistful look. But just when I started to hope, he said firmly, "Then let's go."

I resignedly said, "Hop in. You get in the prow – the front," I added, in case he didn't have any experience with boats. "You can be our lookout; I'll steer."

He obeyed, and I pushed the boat further out into the River and clambered in.

The current of Anduin closed its fingers around us. As we began to drift along and I dipped the midnight-hued paddle into the water, I thought that the boat should have wobbled about more than it had done when I climbed into it. It seemed that the Elven craft had held perfectly still until I was aboard. That thought sent an odd little chill through me. I did not think this boat had behaved like that upriver, when I had journeyed in it before. I wondered if its behaviour had somehow changed toward me since my corpse had been entrusted to its keeping. Perhaps the boat now felt that I belonged to it – that was far more likely, since it was Elven handiwork, than that it felt that it belonged to me.

I had expected Svip to badger me with questions as usual, but he did not. He crouched in the prow, looking about him eagerly and occasionally leaning his head over the gunwales to gaze into the water. He'd taken off the winged helmet after it slipped over his eyes one time too many, for which I was grateful. I had not been looking forward to staring at the ridiculous thing all the way to Minas Tirith. Svip had taken up the bird- headed paddle and was paddling with all the ease of my own people's skilled boatmen. I wondered if he had spent much time travelling in boats; it did not seem that as a water-dwelling creature he would have needed to. But then, with however many thousands of years he had behind him, I supposed he'd had more than enough time for a little experimenting with boat-travel.

Along the shores, the trees swiftly became more scattered and then all but vanished entirely. We were coming into the marshlands.

I gazed at the landscape with nearly as much interest as did Svip. I had never travelled this far north along the River. I supposed we were probably thirty miles or so above the farthest northern point I had reached along the River before, and even that was twenty years ago, by now. I had, of course, seen this land depicted on many of the maps in my collection, and heard it described by men of Rohan and our own Rangers and border guards, but it was an odd sensation to see it for myself, as if my maps had suddenly sprung to life.

The Western shore had far more solid ground at this point than did the East – or at least it looked like solid ground, though I thought I would be very cautious about setting foot on that land and expecting it to hold me up. Here and there isolated, twisting trees still jabbed into the sky, but all around them was a sea of pale, grey-green grasses, making a hollow sort of whispering sound as they rustled in the breeze. I wondered if the grass was just grey because we were still on the edges of winter, or if that was the only colour it ever had. I thought we should soon be able to see the northernmost of the Mouths of Entwash – if indeed one could see it, and it did not just trickle in to the River unseen under all of those grasses. On my maps, the Mouths were nice clear, dark lines, but few things are ever so clear in life as they are on maps.

To our left, the Eastern shore hardly deserved the name shore at all. I would have had trouble stating with certainty where the River ended and the shore began. The morning sun, beginning to go pale behind intermittent stretches of cloud, glinted off water that reached far back into the grass and the weird mushroom shapes of last year's lily pads, dried and brown and forlorn.

I did not notice when we passed too far out of range to still hear the voice of Rauros. Only when it occurred to me how quiet the marshes were, did I realise I could no longer hear the roar of the Falls.

The birds seemed quieter here. I did not know if there were actually fewer of them, or if the marsh birds just cared less for making noise than did their fellows in other lands. Occasionally we would hear a lone squawk from one, and catch sight of it, a tiny creature hopping from lily pad to lily pad pecking at the remaining seeds, or a long-legged heron standing in the water and watching us. Sometimes a raucous call that I assumed came from frogs sounded through the air, and now and then there were slow, ponderous splashing sounds, as of some long-bodied animal slithering into the water.

It was all very interesting, but I cannot say I was entirely happy at the prospect that we were facing at least two days of this.

I cast my gaze about us on the continual watch for Orcs, listening to the sound of our paddles, and the birds and frogs and the whispering grass. Surprising though it was, I wished that Svip would say something.

I asked him quietly, "Have you been to this part of the River before?"

He turned back toward me and nodded. "Just a little bit farther, though," he answered, also keeping his voice low. "Probably just past that tree up ahead there. I turned back around there; we're getting into another's territory."

"Another?"

"Like me," he said. He gave a troubled frown, and went on, "I hope he won't smell me in here. He would if I was in the water, but maybe in the boat, he won't notice."

I asked, "What would happen if he did?"

His frown grew deeper. He shook his head and did not answer that question. "Maybe he won't," he said.

He looked so troubled that I thought I had to try and offer some words of comfort. "How long ago was it you were here?" I asked. "Perhaps he doesn't still live here."

"Oh, I haven't been down here for a while," he said. "Three hundred and forty years, maybe."

My curiosity on this question overwhelmed me. "So how old are you?" I asked. "If you don't mind my asking?"

Svip tilted his head to one side and thought about it. "Oh – probably about three thousand one hundred and fifty. Give or take a few," he said.

I said, "Ah."

Three thousand one hundred and fifty. I tried to remember my history lessons. Three thousand one hundred and fifty would make him born around one hundred and thirty years before the start of our Current Age. Which meant he'd been ten years old or so at the time that the Kingdom of Gondor was founded.

That was a humbling thought. I felt like I was paddling down the River in the presence of History.

I asked, "Have you lived at the Falls all that time?"

"No," he said, "I haven't lived there long at all, really. Only one thousand eight hundred years, probably."

_Only_, I thought. I tried to think of what was happening in Gondor one thousand eight hundred years ago. Atanatar II might have been King, but I wouldn't have bet on it. "So where were you before?" I asked him.

"Above the Falls. My first house was three miles above the Great Rock."

The Great Rock, I supposed, might mean the Tindrock, the Isle of Tol Brandir. The island in the shadow of which I had died. I shivered.

I ordered myself to ask him something else. To think of something, anything except for my death. "Why did you move house? Is it a regular thing? Every couple of thousand years?" I dug my paddle into the water with more force than usual and watched as the water droplets falling from the paddle sparkled in the sun.

"No. Most of us only ever have one house. But that was when – what I told you about before happened." He dropped his voice to an almost inaudible whisper. "When I tried to bring back the one who had drowned."

I cast my mind back and vaguely remembered what he was talking about. Very early, perhaps even in those first few minutes after I'd awakened, he had said something about how he'd been able to bring me back because I hadn't drowned. That he'd tried it before with someone who had drowned, and the River hadn't liked it. "It's all right," I said. "You don't have to talk about it."

"No, the River doesn't mind me talking about it, I don't think. Though you never know."

He glanced around and still looked decidedly nervous, but yet he dove into his narrative. "It was one of those times when I'd got lonely, you know. Like now. I was out collecting and I found him above the water, caught by some rocks. A Dwarf. Fairly young, I think, at least his beard was pretty short. I don't think he'd been dead long; nothing had started eating him yet."

I thought, _Many more comments like that and I'm going to be sick._ I fought against the urge to scratch, as I was hit by the illusory but maddeningly vivid sensation that River fish were nibbling at my flesh. My brief stint as a corpse floating down the River had probably ensured that for the rest of my life I would have nightmares about corpses in water.

"Go on," I said.

"Well, you see, I remembered about silverweed. I'd seen them using it on the battlefields to save the ones who were dying. Sometimes ones who were already dead. It grows all along the riverbed around here, so I took him back to my house and tried it out. But - "

"Yes?" I prompted quietly.

"The River wasn't happy. Before the spell was finished It sent a wave and – and tore down my house. I never saw what happened to the Dwarf, but he hadn't come back yet, so I guess he didn't know anything about it. I hope. And the wave took me and it dropped me down the Falls."

I stopped paddling and stared at him as we kept drifting along. "You fell down the Falls?"

He gave a little, unhappy grin. "Yes. Just like you. Only you don't remember it, do you?"

I thought about it and tried to remember, but mercifully came up with nothing. Plummeting down a thousand foot waterfall was not a memory I wanted to treasure.

I took up my paddle again. "No. I don't."

"Probably a good thing. Anyway, I was washed along for quite a ways and finally thrown out of the water. But then I told the River I was sorry and I guess it was all right, because It let me come back in again. So that was when I started this house, below the Falls."

He turned to face forward again, and whispered, "There, look. We're passing the tree. This was where I turned around."

Svip fell silent after that, huddled down in the boat so that only his head protruded over the line of the gunwale. He had stopped paddling. I supposed he was worried at crossing into this other's territory, and I wondered if the other could have sensed him more easily if he were paddling. Were their senses keen enough for the other to pick up Svip's scent just from the sweeping of his paddle through the water?

I tensed up a bit in sympathy with him, half expecting an enraged green being to leap up out of the water and attack us. But all I saw was a turtle swimming past, and all I heard was the haunting call of some lonely bird.

To our right a dark-watered stream appeared, cutting its way through the grass to melt into the River. There it was: Hosvir, the farthest north of the Mouths of Entwash. Silently I recited their names to myself, picturing the sunlit schoolroom where I'd had to memorise them: Hosvir and Hjalmar and Heidrek, Gilling and Geirthjof and Glammad, after the six brothers of Hjarmendacil.

I wondered, if I had remained dead, and the news of my death had reached my people, whether some feature on the maps would ever have been named after me.

We had passed Hjalmar, the Second Mouth, before Svip sat up straight and started paddling again. Presumably, I thought, we had passed now out of his fellow water being's territory. But though he seemed more cheerful he still didn't speak, and this time I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts to ask him anything.

What would I find when I reached home?

I was not going to think that Minas Tirith might already have fallen. I simply refused to accept that possibility. The fall of Minas Tirith would have been an event of such enormity, surely even Svip would have heard about it. No, I when I got home the City would still be there, and so would Father and Faramir, and we would still have our chance to send the Enemy scuttling back into his wastelands.

If my hopes were justified – if Minas Tirith yet stood and the foe was not yet at our gates – was there a chance I could organise a rescue expedition, to attack the Fortress of Isengard and rescue or avenge Merry and Pippin?

I could not go with the expedition myself, of course. But if I could convince my father of the truth of Saruman's treachery, would we not be well advised to send a force to attack him, enlisting the support of our allies of Rohan along the way, rather than waiting for his creatures to strike at our backs?

One could argue that such a plan would leave too few men to guard Minas Tirith against the East. Yet if we waited, might we not be in worse peril, if Saruman caught the men of Rohan by surprise and we found ourselves trapped, with enemies striking from West and East at once? Besides, at the same time as we moved against Isengard we could call upon Uncle Imrahil to support us along the River. With Rohan to ride on Isengard and Dol Amroth holding the River with us, I felt sure we could stand our ground against the Dark. If only we moved fast enough to strike first.

The difficulty, I thought, would lie in convincing my father and brother that Saruman had turned against us. I did not like to think of how Faramir would feel when he realised the truth of it. He had always admired the Wizard Lord greatly, second only to his adulation of old Mithrandir.

Father, too, would be loath to believe it. I thought back to the times when Saruman had visited Minas Tirith while I was growing up, and how he and my father would sit up late at night in Father's study, talking politics and drinking old wine and laughing over Saruman's witticisms, sharp enough to flay his victims alive. As I grew older they would often let me join them, and I remembered how important I had felt at being included in their conversations – though my chief concern had usually been that I not disgrace myself by falling asleep over the wine. Father had even let Faramir stay up past his bedtime and listen to them sometimes, which he would never have done if our guest had been any other Wizard than Saruman. Normally Father hated it when Faramir trailed around after the Wizards – particularly Mithrandir, whose visits always left Faramir longing to go chasing off on some magic quest or another. I could probably recite by memory – though not nearly so perfectly as Faramir could – Father's lecture about how running around in Mithrandir's shadow would just get Faramir killed and deprive Gondor of another warrior, when she so badly needed all of us. But Saruman was different, and Father hadn't minded it when Faramir listened to him. I remembered my father saying once that the Lord Saruman dwelt in reality and understood the world as it was, not like the rest of these Wizards who only saw the world as they wished it to be.

My father thought of Saruman as a friend, and my brother, unless some great awakening to the ways of the world had hit him since last we talked, still believed that Wisdom was invariably allied with Good. It would be a personal hurt to both of them, when they learned that Saruman had turned to the Dark. Yet I was sure they would trust my word on it.

It was fortunate, I thought, that I had more proof of the matter than just Gandalf's report. If the Grey Wanderer's word were all the proof we had, Father would say that Mithrandir was jealous of Saruman's position in their Order and was spreading lies in a bid to overthrow him. But I had heard, from the last Orc I slew below the Falls, that the Orc war party had included "cursed White Hand Isengarders," whose master had sent them to kill the rest of us but bring the halflings to him. Was that not proof enough?

Of course a devoted defender of Saruman could argue that the Orcs' "master" did not have to be Saruman himself. It could be one of his underlings, who had turned to the Shadow without the Lord of Isengard's knowledge. But that did not sound like the great Saruman the Wise. More like Saruman the Gullible.

Something moving in the distance off to our left jolted me into the present. An instant later Svip and I both hissed simultaneously, as if we'd planned it out beforehand, "Orcs! Get down."

Both of us dropped, crouching down to the bottom of the boat to make ourselves as invisible as possible. From the brief glimpse I had got, it had not looked as if the three dark shapes a little ahead of us on the Eastern skyline were looking in our direction. But I had seen little more than silhouettes and I could not be sure.

What little planning we had done for the eventuality of running into Orcs was to hide and try to make them think the elven craft was abandoned, drifting down the River on its own. And if that failed, the remaining plan consisted of "we fight them." Or, I hoped it would in reality be "I fight them and Svip stays in the boat and keeps out of the way," but I doubted that I would be that lucky.

At the moment I'd seen the Orcs, my paddle had been on a downswing, cutting through the water. Now I crouched frozen with my left hand gripped around the paddle and the paddle still sticking out from the boat. I dreaded to pull it back in, lest the movement or a flash of sunlight off the wet paddle should draw the Orcs' attention down on us. Of course if they got close enough they could not fail to notice that what held the paddle in place was not an oarlock but rather my hand. But I hoped that from a distance the dark leather of my gauntlet would blend in with boat.

An idea came to me, but I did not dare move enough to carry it out.

"Svip," I whispered.

"What?" he hissed back.

"I'm going to untie the Elven cloak from my belt. I've got the Horn of Gondor in it; if you grab the cloak when I get it loose, I'll make sure the Horn doesn't fall and bring them down on us. Try to spread the cloak over us as much as you can. The Elves in Lórien said these cloaks will make the wearer invisible, or something like that." As I said it, I felt immensely stupid. _Yes,_ I thought, _something like that. Instead of two people huddled in the bottom of a boat, we will instead look like two people huddled in the bottom of a boat underneath a cloak. _

Svip inched toward me while I struggled, one-handed, to untie the knotted cloak. When he got close enough he reached out to help. After entirely too long, the last of the knots came loose. It was a good thing that Svip was there, for I would almost certainly have dropped the Horn of Gondor and alerted the Orcs to our presence if I'd had to juggle both portions of the Horn one-handed. I cautiously lowered one half of it to the floor of the boat, and Svip did the same with the other. Then he took hold of the cloak and started trying to spread it out, all the while without making too many large, sudden movements.

Now my feeling of helplessness was magnified a hundredfold. Still crouching there trying not to move, and now able to see nothing but the grey mistiness of Elven fabric, I wanted to leap out of the boat and charge the Orcs. At least then I would be doing something, instead of just waiting.

We drifted on. I listened desperately, but no sound of shouting Orcs assailed my ears. I thought I might have heard Orcish voices, just at the edge of earshot, but certainly nothing moving near to us. Nothing that sounded like Orcs who had just found a pair of village idiots hiding under a cloak.

The minutes dragged by, giving me the sensation that instead of moving through time at the normal speed, we were creeping through it like flies trapped in a puddle of treacle. The faint hint of Orc voices faded, leaving only the occasional frog, and the rustling breeze.

At last enough time had passed that I thought it must surely be a legitimate strategic move to check whether the enemy was still in view. Not even my brother, or Aragorn, could say I had acted with too great haste or rashness this time.

I whispered to Svip, who was huddled down at the far end of the cape, "I'm going to check on them."

"No," he whispered back, "I'll do it. I'm smaller; it'll be harder for them to see me." He thought for a while, then added, "I'll tow us into the reeds and hide the boat, then I can do a reconnaissance."

I nodded, thinking to my surprise that it might not be such a huge drawback to have Svip along on this voyage after all.

Keeping under the cloak for as long as possible, Svip crawled to the starboard side and then slipped out into the water, in a lithe, slithering move like a fish escaping a fisherman's boat. A moment later the Elven boat began to move forward with more purpose than before. Svip had taken hold of the rope still tied to the ring on the prow, and was pulling the boat along.

I heard reeds scraping along the sides as we came to a stop. Then Svip's almost inaudible voice: "Wait here, I'll look around."

I resisted the urge to tell him to be careful, knowing how much I hate it when people say that to me. Presumably even Svip, impractical though he might sometimes appear, knew that caution was appropriate when sneaking around looking for Orcs.

I pulled the Elven cloak off me and sat up, finding myself surrounded by reeds so thick that I wondered if the boat were balancing on top of them rather than floating in the water. With painful carefulness I moved my left arm, which had fallen asleep, and finally brought the paddle back into the boat.

I wondered how long I should wait before deciding that the situation had fallen apart and going to look for Svip.

Fortunately, I did not have to make that decision. After only a few minutes, my strange green comrade appeared, swimming through the reeds. With only his head visible, I thought that if I did not already recognise him, I would have had no idea what he was. From only a little distance, the most likely identification of him would be as a gigantic snake. Hopefully, I thought, that was what Orcs would think as well.

He grabbed hold of the boat's side, and grinned at me. "Couldn't find any sign of them," he reported. "I think we're back in the water. I did smell Orc in the nearest really shallow bits, but it didn't smell fresh."

Svip towed us back out of the reeds, this time with me contributing my paddling to the effort. When we reached the main channel again he hopped into the boat and we continued on, as if our voyage had not been interrupted. But now we left the cloak of Lórien spread out, for greater ease of throwing ourselves under it if need be.

Twice more that day we encountered Orcs. Once I spotted a larger party of them, perhaps fifteen or twenty, heading south along the Western shore. It was shortly after we passed Heidrek, the Third Mouth of Entwash, perhaps forty miles from the Falls of Rauros and Svip's home. The sight of these Orcs on the West shore filled me with dread, for more than our present predicament. The more of Sauron's creatures that felt free to wander the Western bank, the more it looked as if all of our land was soon to be over-run. Or had been over-run already.

We were still a good distance behind the Orcs when we saw them, and had time to take up our posts once more beneath the Elven cloak. This time I did not have to freeze with my arm and paddle sticking out of the boat. The brutes' loud, harsh voices fell heavily on our ears as we floated past them. But despite my pessimistic predictions which sent my right hand creeping toward my sword, none of the Orcs waded out toward us. Judging from the tones of their voices, our craft elicited no more than minor interest.

The third time, as evening drew in, we did not see the Orcs at all. But Svip suddenly pulled in his paddle and whispered to me that he smelled them, strongly, just ahead. The River, at this point, was dotted with little islands, some apparently actual dry ground and others hillocks of muck and reeds. We ducked under our cloak again and drifted through the murky twilight.

I still was not entirely convinced that our safe passage was due to the cloak of Lórien rather than to the Orcs being unobservant. But it would be foolishness to discard a potential weapon before it had been proven not to work. Unless some Orc were to pull the cloak off us and inquire what we thought we were playing at, I was willing to accept that the cloak did what the Elves of Lothlórien said it did.

Without Svip's keen senses I did not smell any Orcs, but I did smell woodsmoke and hear the crackling of campfires. Their voices reached us again, and an occasional guttural laugh.

We journeyed for perhaps another hour after we had emerged from the cloak that third time. Only a faint hint of light was left in the Western sky when we pulled in to another thick screen of reeds. Svip and I had decided against spending the night on land, for we could not know when some band of Orcs might come strolling through our campsite. Besides, there was little point in it, since Svip would just go sleep in the water anyway.

We tied the rope around a clump of thick-stemmed reeds, and settled in for the night.

Svip dove underwater to fetch our dinner. To have risked a fire would have been absurd, so I resigned myself to a meal of raw fish, much to Svip's delight. It was not the first time I had eaten raw fish, or for that matter raw frog, raw lizard or raw snake, when the rigours of campaigning required it. But I would have been just as happy not to renew my acquaintance with it.

My comrade returned with a couple of fish and some weeds that he assured me would put the finishing touches on this particular delicacy. He was right; it was not all that bad. It was at least better than lighting a fire and announcing our presence to the forces of Darkness.

Svip made his bed in another clump of reeds next to the boat, his pillow a hillock of mud and the rest of his body in the water. I worried that he'd slide underneath and drown, but Svip assured me he had plenty of experience of sleeping in the water without dying.

I was left with the Elven boat for my bed. With Svip's pack as a pillow and the cloak of Lórien as a blanket, I should have been comfortable enough. Certainly there was more comfort in it than in many surfaces on which I had slept.

That did not stop me from spending a thoroughly unpleasant night.

I could feel the cold of the water seeping through the hull. The air was thick with the dank smells of rotting vegetation.

I could not help thinking of the last time I had been lying down in this boat.

I lay there with the Elven cloak clutched around me, ordering myself not to be such an ass about this. There was absolutely no reason why it should bother me. All I had to do was just forget about it.

A nightmare image came to me that the boat had just been waiting, all day, to claim me for its own. That when I closed my eyes the boat would take me, and dawn would find me a corpse, laid out cold and pale with my funeral goods heaped up about me.

In my mind I snarled at myself, _Shut up and go to sleep._

I rolled over, seeking in vain a position that was comfortable enough to lure me into sleep.

I don't know how many times I did that, but once I set the boat rocking badly enough that it whacked into Svip.

His voice hissed irritably out of the darkness, "Do you have to do that?"

"Yes," I growled, and flipped onto my other side to prove it. I resisted my impulse to tell him that if he didn't want to put up with me being a restless sleeper, he shouldn't have insisted on bringing me back to life and trailing after me like a puppy.

I thought, _There's a philosophical statement for you. Into every life comes the time to make the choice: whether loneliness and wanting someone to talk to is a greater or lesser evil than getting smacked in the head with a boat when the Man in said boat rolls over in it. _

I scowled up at the black sky and the few glimmering stars.

I was not sure where waking ended and my dream began. Which made the dream all the worse.

I was once more floating down the Great River. It was still night, but more stars were visible overhead, without the dank haze that rolls up out of the marshes. I lay on my back, and though I could not move, I could feel that my hands rested together over my chest.

I thought that I lay in a boat, yet there seemed to be water above me and all around me. The water gleamed with a strange, cold light, as if moonlight had been trapped within it. Panic jolted through me at the realisation that the water was over my face. I tried to gasp, tried to cough, tried to breathe. Tried to sit up and get out of that water before it choked off my life. But I could not move, and when I thought about it I found I felt no need to breathe. I felt as if I had never breathed. As if there had never been anything in my life except the glimmering water and the cold, joyless light.

The boat, if boat it was, suddenly seemed to slow its course. Then someone appeared above me, beyond the gleaming water. I could see him clearly, the icy glow of the water turning his face as pale as a corpse.

My brother Faramir gazed at me, anguished despair in his face. I could not hear him, but as I lay there longing to cry out, to speak to him, I saw his lips move as he spoke my name.

Of a sudden, I did hear something. From the way he started and whirled as if to face an enemy, my brother heard it too. The call of a horn, long, loud and clear. It was a call that I knew full well, for it came from my own Horn, from the Horn of Gondor.

I was no longer in the boat. I was standing next to my brother, with the water rushing against my legs. I reached out and grabbed Faramir's arm, but he did not seem to notice me.

The Horn sounded again, its cry wild and twisting, the echoes bouncing off one another until they sounded like the horns of an army.

Faramir yelled into the night, never looking at me, "Boromir! Where is your Horn? Where are you going? Boromir!"

Other sounds rushed at us from the dark shore. Trumpet calls. The yells of Men in combat, and of darker creatures. The clash of blades and armour and the hollow whistle of arrows in flight.

Faramir started through the water toward the shore, then a huge splashing behind us caused him to turn once more. He drew his sword, and I moved to do the same, only to realise that I was not armed.

The glimmering light had gone, but I could still see my brother's beloved face, as he waited grimly for whatever came at him from the darkness. His face betrayed no fear, but I heard him whisper, "Boromir, where are you?"

I awoke. The first shock of waking sent me sitting up in the Elven boat and reaching wildly for my sword.

There were no trumpet calls. No shouts and clashing swords, and nothing splashing through the River. Nothing but Svip snoring quietly from the reeds.

I sat there, shaking. After a few minutes I forced myself to lie back down, once more staring up at the sky.

I wished I could cry, but the dread that shuddered through me seemed too deep and cold for tears.

_Just a dream,_ I told myself.

Yet, I knew, there was no such thing as "just a dream" in my family.

It had been just a dream that sent me forth from Minas Tirith to begin with, on the quest that led to my death.

Just dreams that I knew came to my brother and our father, more often perhaps than they would ever admit. Dreams and waking visions that spoke to them of our country's fate, and that gave them that pale, haunted look as if some unspoken horror devoured them from the inside.

If those dreams came to them, why should they not also come to me?

Faramir and I had spoken of it many times. His theory was that I did have the same dreams, only I was too pigheaded to pay any notice to them.

_Well,_ I thought, _you should just be pigheaded again. It's only to be expected that you're having nightmares. What did you think would happen, when you're sleeping in your own damned funeral boat?_

Yet I could not stop seeing my brother's face, as he brandished his sword and grimly faced the dark.

_He's all right,_ I told myself. _Even if it was premonition, even if he is in combat at this very moment, he will be all right._

"Faramir," I whispered. "Please be all right."

The river grasses rustled in the breeze, as I lay there and watched the stars.


	5. Chapter Five: In the Marshlands

Author's Note (May 2002): Hello again – I hope someone is still reading this! Thanks for the reviews! I've had the devil of a time with this chapter, so I'll be interested to know what you think. There's a fairly non-canon bit coming up in here – though, I guess it's not any more non-canon than Boromir not being dead. Well, I think it actually doesn't badly contradict what Tolkien tells us, but see what you think. Enjoy, I hope!

_Chapter Five: In the Marshlands _

By noon the next day, I came to cordially loathe the marshes of Anduin.

We had made reasonable progress on our first day's voyaging. I reckoned we must have made around forty miles, which was as good as some of the better days with the Fellowship, upriver. But as the hazy sun moved up the sky on that second day, I knew we would be lucky to make half of that.

I had, indeed, wondered a bit at the ease of our progress. I should have remembered my maps, and the endless discussions with my father and the Council, debating strategies for the defence of our borders.

There should have been nothing surprising to me in the channel being clear just south of Rauros. I had seen it often enough on my maps; there was even one map painted by Arnulf the Far-Ranging during his voyage to the sea, that showed in detail the River beneath Rauros and the gradual descent into marshland. But the Nindalf Marsh got thicker, the farther the River flowed. By the time the River won clear again around the point where the Entwash itself met with Anduin, the marsh was thick and treacherous enough that generations of our statesmen believed it a border requiring only the most desultory guard.

The few men of Gondor that I knew of who had travelled south through the marshes had the glamour of explorers about them. They could dine out on the stories of their adventures for the rest of their lives.

After a quick breakfast – if it could be called that – of some rather slimy water plant that Svip referred to as eelsbane, we set out shortly past dawn. An hour later our journey was changing from a simple paddle downriver, to a challenge worthy of the heroes of legend. As far as I was concerned, the heroes of legend could keep it.

Half an hour or so after we started, the terrain had altered abruptly. The reeds no longer lingered at the edges of the River, but started to grow across our path in an ever-thickening wall. We began to lose the current, and I began to wonder if the current even still existed. Svip got out of the boat and swam ahead of it. I paddled along behind him, but even with him following the current we lost it twice and found ourselves in dead ends where the water disappeared into grasses and mud.

When we did find the main channel, the River was still deep enough that my paddle could not touch the bottom. But the reeds were so thick, even here, that I wondered if I should draw my sword and just start hacking our way through them. I was spending less time paddling than I was shoving aside the reeds.

It must have been around eleven that morning when Svip volunteered to change into horse form. He had stashed a good length of rope in his pack, and we spent an irritating several minutes trying to sort out how to rig the rope to pass through the ring on the prow and go around the horse's forequarters, without riding up on his neck and choking him. In horse form, we discovered, Svip's hooves could touch the bottom of the River while his head was still well above water.

His chattiness was greatly reduced as he trudged along lugging the Elven boat. I was starting to feel guilty about him doing all this work while I got a free ride, but I need not have worried. My chance to work came soon enough, when the water got so shallow that it barely went over Svip's hooves, and the boat started bumping along as though we were trying to draw a sled over a field of boulders.

I had got out of the boat a mile or so back and was walking beside it. We stopped for a noon break, and lunched on some orangeish plant stems that Svip recommended, which tasted a little like rhubarb. Then we re-divided our duties. Svip had turned back into his usual shape over lunch, but when we set out again he was once more a horse, with his pack, the shield and our paddles strapped awkwardly to his back. I, for my part, carried the boat on my shoulders, with the cloak of Lórien folded up and providing some minimal padding between my shoulders and the boat's gunwales.

We were moving into the realm of the insects. I began to be very grateful that we were making this voyage at the end of winter, rather than summer. If the bugs were out in such force now, I hated to think of what they might be like in July. Great dragonflies as long as my forearm perched on the leaves of the reeds, watching us impassively from out their purple iridescent eyes. Mosquitoes, it seemed, were mercifully absent, but there were swarms of biting midges so thick that walking through them was like stepping into a cloud of smoke. It seemed that the midges were attracted by sweat, of which I was unfortunately producing rather a lot. I had to keep stopping to put down the boat so I could splash water over myself and wash off the worst of the sweat and the midges. On several occasions I noticed what seemed to be some kind of giant swimming centipedes gliding over my boots, but luckily these creatures did not seem inclined to bite.

Stopped for the third or fourth time to drown a new batch of midges and scrape several layers of mud off my boots, I was trying to remember if any of the explorers of the River had described this stretch of the voyage. Presumably the water was not always this low, or there'd have been some established route going around the marshland rather than through it. There'd been an old portage-way above the Falls of Rauros; I knew that both from history and from hauling boats and luggage along it with my comrades a couple of days before I was killed. But I had never heard of a portage-way that bypassed the Nindalf Marshes. I wondered if, with my usual luck, I'd managed to voyage through the marshlands on the one year out of hundreds when it was this accursedly shallow.

Whatever the case might be, I was becoming increasingly convinced that this marsh should be wiped from existence.

As I trudged on, I vowed sourly that when – or if – I succeeded my father as Steward, my first great undertaking would be an engineering project to remove this marsh from the face of Middle Earth. Perhaps I could convince the Rohirrim to combine forces with us in building a canal that would bypass Nindalf. And then, I thought, if Anduin's waters were re-routed through the canal, we could reclaim the marshlands and use them for farming.

By three o' clock that afternoon, I had created for us a new golden age based on the unprecedented ease of North-South travel and the wealth we would get from our vastly increased farmlands. Now all we had to do was slaughter Sauron's minions and send the Dark Lord packing, so we could take on my engineering project without stopping to kill Orcs every five minutes.

That, I realised, was the one thing we had not had to deal with this day. Not since last night had we encountered any Orcs.

It figured, I thought. It was just like me to be part of an expedition through territory so foul that not even Orcs would go near it.

The sun was disappearing in ruddy cloud on the Western horizon, when I noticed water slopping over the tops of my boots. Only then did I realise that the River was gradually getting deeper. My comrade the horse seemed not to have noticed it either; at least he kept plodding doggedly onward until I called out for him to wait. I put down the boat and saw that it floated, but the real test was when I clambered back in and it remained afloat. Then I had to get out again to take our luggage off Svip, after which he switched forms and lay down in the water, groaning about his aching back.

I grimaced in agreement, splashing more water on myself and trying to rub out some of the burning pains that had developed in my shoulders. I should count myself lucky, I supposed, that it was an elven boat I'd been carrying. If I'd spent the afternoon carrying a Gondorian boat of the same size as this one, I'd really have something to complain about, since our boats were probably twice as heavy as the crafts of the Elves. While waiting for Svip I poured the water out of my boots and scraped off their most recent deposit of mud. Then my companion hopped into the boat and we set out once more. Paddling was still more like poling along the bottom, but at least the boat moved forward without me having to carry it.

I had never thought I would be so happy just to be paddling a boat.

The reeds were still thick, but not so bad that we could not make our way through them. As darkness set in around us we paddled past a gap in the reeds that I guessed just might be Gilling, the Entwash's fourth Mouth.

_Brilliant,_ I thought. _If that's Gilling, we've probably made twelve miles today._

We decided not to risk a fire that night, despite the day's lack of Orcs, but it was remarkable how good the raw fish tasted after an afternoon of slogging through the mud with a boat over my head. I just wished we'd brought along some of the contents of Svip's wine cellar. But in my post-death reality, the River water I scooped up and swigged from one of Svip's canteens tasted nearly as good.

I was leaning back against the side of the boat and Svip had made himself a nest out of the reeds. We sat in companionable silence for a while, revelling in the luxury of not having to walk, portage, paddle, or do anything else. I had started to nod off, when Svip startled me awake with a question.

"What's 'Son of Denethor' mean? Is it a title?"

I sat up straighter and blinked at him in the gathering darkness. I wondered if I had missed some crucial portion of his question. "Um," I began. "Ah, Denethor is my father's name. He's the Steward of Gondor."

I could see Svip looking confused. "I thought you were the Steward of Gondor," he said.

"No," I said slowly, still trying to figure out what I had missed. "He's the Steward. I'm his son. It's 'Son of Denethor-who-is-the-Steward-of-Gondor', not 'Steward of Gondor who is the Son of Denethor.'"

"Oh," said Svip. I saw him staring at me in what seemed to be growing amazement. He suddenly asked, "You know your father?"

His face and voice held such incredulity that I nearly laughed, but I retained my composure. "Yes," I said. "I've known him all my life."

"And you live together?" he went on, his voice going higher in disbelief.

I took a swig of river water and resigned myself to this odd conversation. "Well," I explained, "ever since reaching adulthood my brother and I have had our own households. And we're often stationed at other outposts. But, yes. We do still live together sometimes. And we did so all the time, when we were growing up."

He shook his head in wonder. "And you don't kill each other?"

That brought a grin to my face. "We haven't yet."

Svip was frowning again. "Who's your brother?" he asked.

I said, "His name is Faramir," then it occurred to me that Svip might not even know what the word 'brother' meant. I added, "He's my father's other son. He's five years younger than I am."

Svip gazed down at the water, looking lost in thought. I dipped the canteen into the River, took a drink, then tore loose a piece of the nearest reed and started shredding it. I was pondering what Svip's questions might reveal about his own life.

Finally I asked him, "Have you never lived with your family?"

He looked at me in shock. "No! Not since I was weaned. That would be horrible!"

I shrugged. "Some families among Men are like that, too."

He shook his head impatiently. "No, I mean none of us do. We can't be near each other. If we smell another of our kind, we want to kill them."

"Ah." I frowned, then forged on, "I can't imagine you wanting to kill anyone."

He said vigorously, "That's because you're not one of us. I only ever met two others after I left my mother's house. I never want to do it again."

I heard something in the reeds behind Svip. A rustling, then a small plopping sound.

"It's a frog," said Svip, noticing that I had reached for my sword.

I relaxed a little, moving my hand from the sword hilt. I just hoped that the frog had not jumped out here to get away from any Orcs. But nothing came lurching out of the marsh to attack us, and gradually I turned my mind back to what Svip had been saying.

"Forgive me for asking," I said, "but it seems very strange to me. Why would you get along with others, but not with your own kind?"

Svip started swinging his feet back and forth in the water, looking down at them and the ripples they made. "It's territory," he said. "Whenever another's there you can't help it, you think he's after your territory. Even if you know he isn't. And then if you don't get away from each other fast, you start trying to rip each other's throats out."

"Ah." The unbidden and fairly unwelcome thought came to me that it sounded like the way I had reacted to Aragorn. Although, I argued, he _was_ after my territory, so it was hardly the same situation. And I hadn't tried to rip out his throat – not precisely – though there were times when that sounded like a very good idea.

There was another small splashing sound, probably the frog trying to get away from Svip's feet.

An unseemly curiosity was taking hold in my mind, and did not seem inclined to let go. I asked, "But this must only hold true with the males of your kind?"

"Oh, no," Svip said, with a vehement shake of his head, "with all of them."

"Then, how is it possible to – " I stopped myself with an effort. "Forgive me, it isn't my business."

"No, I don't mind," he said. He gave a mournful sort of grin. "I started this conversation."

I told myself that I really should not ask him this. But somehow the words slipped out while I was still convincing myself not to say them. "It must be very difficult to … produce offspring. That is, if you do. I'm sorry, I've no reason to assume that you do."

"Oh, we do." He shuddered. "It's awful. Most of us only go through it once; we get it over with as fast as possible. You can usually avoid fighting while it's happening, but whoever doesn't own the house has to leave right afterward, or you'd start killing each other."

"Ah," I said again. I couldn't think of any appropriate comment, although several observations leapt into my head along the lines of there being some men and women who conduct their interactions with each other on the same basis.

We were both silent for a time. Then Svip asked tentatively, "What about you? Do you have a – what do you call the one you produce your young with?"

I thought, _I should end this now_. It was not fitting for me to discuss this with him. But another voice in me argued that it would be unfair for me to just shut up now. Svip had answered my questions; it would be cowardly of me not to answer his.

"A wife," I said, not looking at him. "I did have one. She died five years ago." I did not want to say the next words, but they followed relentlessly. "So did my son."

"Your son?" Svip whispered.

I stared down at the water as it disappeared into the gathering night. "Yes. He was two years old."

Svip fell silent again, and at first I thought he was not going to ask any more. Then he asked quietly, "Was it in the fighting? With the East?"

"No. The fever was very bad that summer. I think around half the City fell ill with it, though not all of those died. My brother's wife died from it, on the same day as my son. Our father was taken ill then, as well, but he pulled through."

The River seemed to change from grey to black as I stared into it.

Thinking of them brought the same dull ache as always, but it was long now since their loss held the pain of an open wound. It had become something that just _was_, that I could do nothing to change.

My companion queried in a hesitant voice, "Can you take another wife? Does it work like that?"

"Yes. It works like that. I haven't yet." The wry speculation came to me from somewhere that perhaps Svip was in the pay of my father, who had hired him to prod me on the wife question. I could hear my father's constant lecture that the Line of the Stewards must be preserved, and my own repeated assurances that of course I was going to seek another wife, soon.

I had meant it. It was only that I had not wanted to face it yet, at first. And then when that was becoming no longer a worthy excuse, the danger from the East was growing and I had more pressing concerns confronting me than the need to go out bride-hunting.

I thought, _If I'd known I was going to die so soon, maybe I'd have got round to it faster. If I had foreseen gasping out my life with those Orc arrows in my chest, perhaps I'd have wed the first likely princess my father flung at me and would have been siring heirs to the Line of the Stewards as rapidly as I could manage._

Well, now I had another chance. Presuming that I didn't just immediately get myself slain again – and presuming that by the time I got back we still had a city to fight for, and a line of Stewards to be preserved.

And of course, presuming that my interlude of being dead hadn't created any problems with my ability to produce heirs.

That, at least, was a concern I did not have to worry about just now. My first concern was getting back to Minas Tirith without being killed. Again.

Svip's quiet voice asked out of the gathering dark, "Do you like them? Your family, I mean?"

I smiled at that, trying to think of an answer that would not just entirely confuse him.

"Yes, I do," I said. "Most of the time. I love them, anyway." I wondered if he would ask me to explain that, but he did not.

He said, "I hope I get to meet them."

I thought about it and decided that I hoped so, as well, even though it was going to be a damned peculiar conversation when I explained him to them. I said, "I hope you do, too."

If any dreams came to me that night, I do not remember them.

The next morning our journey got off to a promising start. The sky was heavy and looked like rain, which seemed a good sign as it might wash away some of the bugs. The reeds were still absurdly thick, but at least the boat remained afloat and we did not have to resort to portaging.

After a few minutes of struggling through the reeds we divided our duties once again. Svip took my place at the stern, alternately paddling and jumping out to swim ahead, pulling the boat along behind him. I sat in the prow, finally trying out the idea that I'd had the day before. I had my sword drawn, and with it I hacked, sliced, chopped and sawed at the plants blocking our path. For a while I tried using Svip's little silver axe, but the thing was so tiny that I thought I might make as much progress if I were trying to cut through the reeds with my teeth. In my battle against the water plants I used also the shield from Svip's collection, holding reeds out of the way with it and protecting my head when we glided through or under stretches that I'd not managed to cut or shove aside. Even with the shield, I acquired a myriad of tiny cuts from the razor-sharp edges of the leaves.

I was hacking at a particularly resilient wall of plants that blocked our way, thinking that perhaps I should name the sword "Reedsbane" or "Weedslayer." Svip was swimming, towing the boat by its rope, but the reeds were too thick for me to see him.

He called out, "This patch doesn't go on much farther. I'm through to the other side." I was about to call back a reply, when there came a yelp from Svip in the water ahead, and a sudden splash.

It was fortunate that I had the shield already to hand, for in the next instant the whirr of arrows sounded through the reeds. I jerked the shield upward just in time to catch in it two black feathered arrows, thudding into its thick, battle-scarred wood.

The arrows had come from out of the wall of plants that I'd been hacking at. Three more followed in close succession, one slamming into the shield, one sailing over my head, one glancing off the side of the Elven boat and falling into the water.

I vaulted over the gunwale, landing with my feet planted in the muddy bottom of the River and the water reaching halfway up my chest. I could do nothing against whoever was firing at me unless I could see them, nor could I find out what had happened to Svip if I just huddled there under my shield. So I plunged forward, once more hewing the plants asunder and now using the shield to protect myself both from sharp-edged leaves and from arrows.

I burst out into the next clear stretch of water, nearly on top of a startled Orc archer. He was just nocking another arrow to his bow. I had a brief impression of his staring eyes and the fangs in his gaping mouth, then I smashed the shield, edge on, into his jaw. As he staggered back, one strike of my sword carved open his chest.

The archer hit the water with a massive splash, as I was charging a second Orc bowman who'd stood a few feet behind and to his right. This Orc managed to fire off two arrows at once, but I caught both of them in my shield. Before he could fire again I slammed bodily into him, knocking him backward with the shield and then stabbing him through the gut.

That was two down, but I hadn't managed to get any count of how many might be left. I ducked under my shield again as arrows rained down on me. I'd caught a glimpse of an island ahead, a small outcrop of land on which there seemed to be several tents and at least four more Orcs, running down to the water toward me.

I couldn't see any sign of Svip. No tiny corpse floating in the water, to my intense relief. But no hint of his whereabouts, either. Hopefully that meant that he had made himself scarce.

I fell back to the reeds, diving into their cover and keeping just within their borders so that I could see the advancing Orcs but they, I hoped, could not see me. It was my guess that when I'd been on the other side of the reeds from them, the Orcs had been able to see me from the greater heights of the island. I hoped the reeds would now hide me enough to stop them from taking decent aim at me. But that did not stop them from just firing in a random swathe into the wall of reeds.

The four Orcs splashed through the water. Two of them were still firing and two were beating their blades against the reed wall in the attempt to roust me out. I thought I might have seen a fifth of the brutes behind them, but I could not be sure. As I moved away, to my right, I kept low in the water and prayed that I could do this without agitating the reeds too badly and giving my location away.

With agonising caution I shouldered the shield, sheathed my sword and drew forth my confiscated Orc dagger.

The Orcs ploughed into the water plants, the tall stalks breaking with loud, hollow snaps. I lowered myself deeper, only protruding out of the water from the nose upward. Then I glided back toward the nearest Orc.

As he slashed his sword through the reeds like a farmer wielding his scythe, I sprang at him. I drove the dagger up through his thick, burly neck, at the same time seizing hold of him and dragging him down beneath the water.

That had worked like a charm, and there were no yells from his fellows to suggest that the killing had even been noticed. I slipped past the corpse that now bobbed gently in the water, moving to claim another victim.

Arrows whizzing past my face at least told me where to find my target. I leapt up again, shoving the dagger through his throat. But as I grabbed him and pulled him down, I heard shouts from out in the open water behind my prey.

Enraged roars, huge splashes, breaking water plants and the whine of arrows converged on me. I leaped over the latest corpse, swinging my shield from shoulder to hand and smashing it into the foremost Orc. He floundered, enough for me to stab him. Leaving the dagger in this Orc's chest, I drew my sword once more.

Arrow after arrow plunged into my shield. Fiery pain blossomed in my left side, as one of the arrows caught me in the chest and stuck there. I swung the sword at the next Orc but he jumped back out of the way.

Then several astounding things seemed to happen at once.

One of the two remaining Orcs, at the edge of the reeds, yelled out something as his footing was yanked from under him. He tumbled forward and vanished behind the reeds. His last standing comrade took a couple of steps toward him, and suddenly a great grey horse surged up out of nowhere, leaping at the last Orc.

I heard the Orc shout in terror, striking out wildly with his sword. The horse's hooves smashed into his forehead, and he toppled like a felled oak. For good measure, the horse brought its hooves down on the prostrate Orc, time and again.

Of course I recognised this particular big, grey horse. It was just that I had a hard time making myself believe in what I was seeing.

As I stared, the horse turned away from his victim and trotted calmly out of the reeds. Then he vanished.

I stumbled out of the reeds after him.

The sight that met my eyes looked like some fever-born nightmare. My little comrade Svip was perched on the back of a huge Orc in red armour. The Orc floated face downward, with Svip's short sword jammed up into his backbone, penetrating beneath the crimson-painted cuirass. Svip was tugging on the sword, bracing himself against the Orc's big tree trunk-like legs. As he pulled at the sword, the Orc bobbed up and down in the water like a gruesome raft.

"Good heavens, Svip," I gasped out. "I don't believe it!"

Svip looked up at me, with a relieved smile. "Hello," he said. "Could you pull this out for me? It's stuck."

I splashed a little unsteadily over to him, and Svip hopped off the corpse and remained treading water beside it. Being taller, I had the advantage of being able to brace my feet on the river bottom rather than on the floating Orc. I shoved on the Orc's back with one hand and yanked out the sword with the other, the weapon pulling free with an unpleasant slurp.

As I handed him his sword, I noticed Svip staring at me in concern. "Are you badly hurt?" he asked.

I looked down at the arrow in my side and cautiously prodded the area around it. "No," I said, "I don't think it's bad. I think it's more stuck in my clothes than in me." There was definitely blood, and my clothing and chain mail had acquired another tear. But it seemed that the arrow had glanced off a rib and ended up getting stuck in my tunics.

Looking back at Svip, I saw that he too was bleeding, from a long cut along his left shoulder and collarbone. One of the last Orc's panicked sword swings must have connected. "What about you?" I asked. "You all right?"

He nodded. "It's not deep. That Orc was too scared to concentrate."

I thought that I could not blame the Orc for that. I was also thinking that perhaps my strange green friend wouldn't make a half bad warrior, after all.

Something moving in the distance beyond Svip drove all other thoughts from my mind. I crouched down into the water, hissing, "There's more of them coming. Get back into the reeds."

We slipped back to their cover and peeked out through the stalks. There were definitely more of the large, dark shapes approaching. A lot more of them. The little island was between us and them, but as we watched I saw one Orc, and then a second, climb up over the island's crest.

Their voices started to carry through the heavy air, many voices overlapping each other. My estimation from what I saw and heard was that at least twenty of them were headed toward us. Possibly a good deal more than that.

"Damnation," I whispered. "We can't fight all of them."

"Let's get back to the boat," breathed Svip. "We'll hide it. And us."

We crept and swam through the reeds once more. I hissed in pain as the arrow still hanging from my side got caught on some underwater plant. I paused briefly to break off the arrow's shaft, and made another stop a few seconds later when I retrieved the dagger I had left in one Orc's chest. Then I followed Svip through the watery forest.

An angry shout from behind us told that some of our victims were discovered.

Svip had reached the boat and was towing it toward another grove of reeds. I caught up with him as he got to the reeds' edge. Svip whispered, "Let's sink it." We flipped the boat over and forced it under the water, no easy task with an Elven boat that had a mind of its own, determined on staying afloat. But we got it jammed between several plant stalks, underwater. I had grabbed the cloak of Lórien out of the boat before we sank it, and now I put it on. Svip and I ducked into the reeds and made our way as deeply into them as we could go, before the plants grew so closely together that we could not get any farther without cutting them down.

We heard the Orc voices growing closer. We heard their shouts, and splashes, and the rustling, crashing sounds of bodies moving through the reeds.

I raised the hood of the elven cloak over my head. Then I gestured for Svip to move closer to me, and when he reached me I stretched the cloak out to cover him. I'd still no real idea if its fabled invisibility actually worked, but it made more sense to try it than not.

Thus we passed the rest of the day.

Twice searching Orcs shoved through the reeds only inches away from us. I was convinced that even if they did not see us, they would have to step on us. Or they would trip on the submerged boat. But they did neither, and gradually the sounds of the search moved farther away. There was much splashing and what sounded like groans, grunts, and curses, and I supposed they might be dragging our victims ashore. Then the noises faded, but Orcish voices still growled in the distance, like the far away threat of thunder.

When we finally decided they were unlikely to continue the search, Svip and I tended to our wounds. He dove under the water and returned with handfuls of some dark, oozing moss, which he recommended we bind into the wounds. Svip hung the moss in great gobbets from the reeds until such time as we should need it. I was going to sacrifice part of my tunic for bandages, but Svip vanished and reappeared again with his sopping wet pack, from which he pulled a random selection of clothing bits from his collection. I gave him a questioning look. He merely shrugged and said, "I figured we'd need some bandages."

The first bit of cloth I grabbed up turned out to be that same white baby dress that I'd seen on one of the piles in Svip's house. I grimaced but said nothing, just shoving the dress back into the handful of cloth and seizing instead a piece of blue fabric that was not recognisable as any clothing in particular.

Svip rubbed the dark moss into the long wound along his shoulder, then I helped him bind it with strips of the blue cloth. Moving awkwardly to avoid shifting the reeds and alerting any watching Orcs, I managed to hike up my tunics and chain mail and get a look at my wound. The arrow had scraped along my ribs. I was cut, bruised and sore, but not in any real danger. There seemed no sign of poison, though I supposed it was too early yet to know for sure.

"I'll go check on the Orcs," whispered Svip, when I had bound my wound. He swam off, to return perhaps fifteen minutes later with discouraging news. The Orcs, it appeared, had set up camp for the day. Svip had seen our victims' corpses piled up on the little island; their fellows had helped themselves to their armour and equipment, and some had moved into the tents that had presumably belonged to their slain comrades. Swimming farther down river, Svip saw more of the Orcs camped on two larger islands. Tents and campfires dotted the islands, and Svip reckoned the Orcs must number forty at the least.

We were clearly not going anywhere, unless the Orcs left first. So we settled in for a long siege.

It started to rain.

Less than three hours had passed since we woke that morning. But we could not risk much conversation, so Svip, deprived of his usual hobby, decided to take a nap. He tied his pack around the stalks of several reeds, and curled up with it as a bobbing, half-submerged pillow.

I sighed, adjusted the hood of the Elven cloak in a futile attempt to keep the rain out of my face, and settled back as comfortably as I could, against the reeds.

I wished we could chance sneaking past the Orcs. Most of them would likely be asleep; I could almost convince myself that we would make it through. But I knew our enemy would post guards, especially now that seven of their company had been mysteriously slain.

My thoughts circled gloomily around these forty Orcs, and what their journey must mean. Orcs travelling in force, through an area unlikely to be well-patrolled by the border guards of Gondor … it was all too easy to conclude that they were heading for some rendezvous point, in preparation for an assault on our country.

If we could just get past them, without being caught … perhaps, if we travelled day and night and they kept stopping in the daytime, we'd outdistance them enough to reach Gondor before them, and bring word of the coming attack …

But I did not know how we could get past. Svip had reported that the reeds were just as thick ahead as those we had already fought. With the boat or without it, we would still have to be struggling our way through the accursed plants. How we could do that without the Orcs noticing, I could not possibly imagine.

For a moment I toyed with the idea that we might fight those forty Orcs and win, before dismissing that thought as too stupid even for me.

I stared up desperately into the rain-choked sky, fighting to think of some way I could get us out of this. But I just kept coming up with ways that, in hindsight, I would change my actions in the past. If only we had left Svip's house earlier, even by a few hours – or if we'd travelled day and night, if we'd even slept a few hours less …

But that wouldn't solve the current problem, would it? Because if we had left earlier or travelled faster, we might not have run into this troop of Orcs at all, so I might not know about this apparent mustering for attack and I could not report it, even if I did reach Gondor before they did.

Damn it, anyway, if I was going to get myself worked up about how we should have timed things differently, there were far more egregious examples I could seize on. If we'd only paddled, curse it, for those first couple of days on Anduin, instead of just letting ourselves drift, we'd have reached Rauros before that Orc war party, and I would probably not have got killed. Then of course there were those bloody two months in Rivendell. There was a brilliant tactical decision, twiddling our thumbs and discussing elvish poetry while we lost the last of the good weather, and setting out to cross the mountains in the damned dead of winter.

And then another month in Lothlórien – it was disgusting, unforgivable, insane.

I closed my eyes and let the raindrops slide over my face, remembering the fury that had surged in me when I finally learned how long we had spent there. It had taken every last scrap of self control that I had, not to start yelling out my rage and challenge Aragorn to a duel right then and there.

It had been that night we spent in the boats, after arrows first reached us from the Eastern shore and Legolas had shot at the flying shadow. I could hear Sam's voice again as he mused whether the phases of the moon were the same in Lothlórien as elsewhere, and felt again my infuriated shock as I heard Aragorn tell him that we had spent a whole month in the woods of Lórien. Poor Merry and Pippin had probably thought I was going to capsize the boat, from the way I had started and grabbed at my sword hilt when he said that.

A month. A whole month. It still made me want to weep in my rage as I thought of it. To think of what we could have done with that month!

If nothing else, if I had known how much time we were wasting there, I would have confronted Aragorn about it.

It is the part of a leader to make decisions for his followers. But had it really been Aragorn's part to keep us so entirely in the dark, to not even let us discuss the choice of whether to spend a month there or not? Should not the Ringbearer, at least, have been given the choice? If it was so cursedly urgent that we destroy the Ring, if darkness was closing in and evil was nipping at our heels, shouldn't we have been given the chance to push ahead with our mission rather than spending a month sitting around on our backsides?

Damnation, I wished I'd been able to say that to Aragorn, there in Lothlórien. And if he had not accepted my point of view, perhaps my break with the Fellowship would have come then, without that last encounter with Frodo – and without the Orcs at Amon Hen. If Aragorn had ignored my protests in Lórien, perhaps I'd have seen then that the Fellowship's goals and mine were no longer the same. I might have left the Golden Wood and set out for home on my own; plague take it, I might be at Minas Tirith now.

I supposed, to give Aragorn the benefit of the doubt, perhaps he'd been as much in the dark about the time that was passing as the rest of us. Perhaps he'd not learned of it until after we left; he might have noticed the difference in the moon just as Sam had, and perhaps he had then asked Legolas about it. Though that would make me furious, too, if I allowed it to. You'd think that after everything we had been through together, Legolas might have had the decency to tell the rest of us how long we were idling there. But I supposed I could not blame Legolas for being an Elf. He'd probably never even thought of it; he'd been too busy wandering around counting trees, or whatever it is that Wood Elves do for fun. It probably never occurred to him that for mortals like the rest of us, a month was rather a large amount of time.

I sighed and stared into the rain.

It did me no good to rage about it now. I could not change what had happened, and stewing over it would only distract me from the threat that was now at hand. I should let it go; it would do no good even to complain of it, if I encountered my former comrades again. They'd have no idea what I was talking about. Legolas would just look at me like I was a fool or a madman, Gimli would go into some tirade about how my complaints were an insult to the Lady of the Golden Wood, and Aragorn would tell me that I'd have no problem with it if it weren't for the evil I carried within myself. Frankly, I could do without all of that.

It was over, and we had wasted a month among the Mallorn trees, no matter how much I hated it. It was over, and what mattered was what I did now.

So what was I going to do?

I frowned at the sleeping Svip and wondered how he could look so comfortable sleeping in the rain. Of course he was used to sleeping in water, but I would have thought that the raindrops on his face might tickle enough to keep him awake.

I reckoned he'd probably had an hour's nap by now, while I had been standing here cursing Fate. His use of that hour, I told myself, had been far more productive than mine had. At least he'd been resting up for whatever might lie ahead, instead of brooding over how unjust everything was.

I shook his shoulder gently. He woke at once and blinked calmly at me.

I told him in a whisper, "I'm going to check on the Orcs again."

He nodded. "I'll go with you."

Leaving our sunken boat and gear, we swam and scrambled through the water, mud and reeds. Several times we had to swim underwater to get through particularly bad patches of reeds without resorting to our unacceptably noticeable technique of hacking through the plants at water level.

I had to grimly fight down surges of panic, when the murky yellow-green water grew so dark and thick with mud that I could barely see my arms as I swam, and when I found myself temporarily trapped where the reeds grew around each other. The water was too foul for me to see Svip through it, but twice the little creature swam back to me as I struggled to find my way around the reeds. He tugged on my sleeve to indicate the right direction, then swam on again, keeping close so he could reach back and guide me if I lost the way again.

I was loath to admit it. But as we watched from the shelter of yet more clumps of vile weeds, I knew our earlier conclusion had been correct. There was no way we would get through this stretch of the River until the Orcs moved on. There were just too many of them, spread out over treeless twin islands that rose from the marsh on either side of what passed for the River's main current. Not that the current was significant enough that it mattered whether we stayed in it or not. But the Orcs had not made it simple for us. They were camped all over those islands. I saw no way around them that offered even half a chance of slipping past without falling under a hail of arrows. We'd have no chance at all if we tried to take the boat, and precious little chance without it.

We could desert the River entirely, and strike west in the search for actual dry land. It would mean, again, abandoning the boat, but it wasn't as if the boat had done much to aid our progress over the past day. Walking might well prove faster.

Yet in the long run, following that course would probably leave us worse off than we were now.

We would have satisfied my immediate need to do something, instead of just sitting here waiting. But that was all we would have accomplished. The time spent in reaching the edge of the marsh and then circumnavigating it would likely put us at least a day's march behind the Orcs. It would do nothing to help us reach my country's outposts before they did.

And we would have lost track of this war party. I would have little to report beyond the bare fact that I had seen forty Orcs in the marshland, and I presumed that they were heading south. I'd have no idea of where they were mustering, how many their assembled troops might number, or where they intended to strike. I could guess on that last question, but any shopkeeper in Minas Tirith would be able to make as informed a guess as I could.

The conclusion could not be escaped. Our only reasonable choice was to wait, and continue our journey when the Orcs broke camp. If we kept just far enough behind for them not to see us, we could track their passage and perhaps learn something of their destination and strategy.

There was even, I told myself with sour humour, a chance that they would break down enough of the reeds for us to follow in their path, without having to carve through every inch of the way.

We swam through the reed-infested sludge, back to the elven boat. And we waited.

The rain stopped in mid-afternoon. A pallid, fitful sun tried to break through the haze.

Svip offered to take a turn on watch and let me nap. My decades at war stood me in good stead, for they had taught me to catch sleep wherever I could, no matter how uncomfortable the position or how troubled my mind. But the couple of hours' sleep I got that day were far from pleasant. Mocking, fevered dreams flitted through them, filled with monstrous bugs and floating corpses, huge red eyes and a golden ring that whispered to me, promising victory and glory if I would but take it into my hand.

I woke, washed my face, and vainly sought a more comfortable position among the reeds. I was glad to be awake and free from those dreams, but my waking thoughts were not much easier. My mind throbbed with thoughts that I did not want to think, but that had too strong a hold for me to shove them aside.

I kept thinking of Faramir.

I had no idea where my brother might be now. He might be in the City, or with his troops in North Ithilien, or at one of our other strongholds. But I could not shake the feeling that wherever he was, it was right in the path of an advancing army. Or armies.

I tried to tell myself that my dream of two nights ago meant nothing. Or rather, it meant only that I was worried for my family and my country. I did not need a prophetic dream to tell me that.

I watched one of the giant centipedes swim past me, and doggedly tried to banish from my mind the image of my brother standing alone as unknown foes rushed him from the darkness. And the sound of his voice whispering "Boromir, where are you?"

Sunset grew in the West like a bleeding wound on the sky. We began to hear more activity from the Orcs' camp. Brusque shouted conversations as their troops crawled out of their bedrolls and started to break down their tents. The clank of weapons and equipment. As evening closed in, a breeze caught the smell of the cook fires, their spears of smoke striking upward beyond the reeds. It brought also the smell of our enemies, the reek that spoke of old decay, fresh blood and ever-present death.

The thought came to me that I had grown up with that smell.

With as much stealth as possible we retrieved our sunken boat. We replaced our gear in it, but left it hidden while we crept forward once more to watch as the Orcs packed up their camp.

They went forth as the dark stain of sunset vanished into night. They had no boats or horses with them, relying on their own hardy limbs and tough hides to hew a passage through the plants of the marsh.

I kept as close count of them as I could, as they set out from the two islands. I was sure I had missed some. But the final total with them all together, not scattered about the islands, still came to nearly sixty. The question gnawed at me of how many such groups might be on the march even now, converging on the outposts of Gondor.

We delayed our departure longer than I would have chosen, but Svip assured me he could track them by their scent and the trail of broken reeds.

Both Svip's eyesight and the Orcs' were better suited to darkness than mine. Yet night creatures though they were, the Orcs must have decided their troops needed some standard to follow to keep them in close formation. Two of their soldiers carried torches, great brands nearly as tall as the Orcs themselves. Long after the Orcs had vanished from my sight I saw the yellow torchlight flicker ahead of us, like ghost lanterns luring us to doom.

On Svip's decision that we had waited long enough, we towed, pushed and squeezed our Elven craft through the reeds where we had fought that morning. Then as a relatively clear stretch of water spread out ahead of us, I took my place again in the boat's stern, paddling as silently as I could manage. Svip perched in the prow, now and then leaning out to touch or smell the plants that we glided past.

When I thought of it before, it had been a speculation born in sarcasm. But the Orcs had indeed carved a path for us to follow. The passage of fifty-odd Orcs through the reeds was a far more efficient means of road- building than had been my endless sword-hacking. I thought, if we tail the Orcs the rest of the way we may get home in decent time.

This was not, of course, a comforting thought. If our foes kept up their current pace, two days' march would bring them well within our borders. They could be at Cair Andros in four days at the most.

But they would not attack the island fortress with a force of only sixty. Somewhere along the way, I reasoned, this band must be planning to meet up with others of their kind. My hope was that while they gathered their troops, I could get to one of our border outposts and send a messenger to Cair Andros, Osgiliath, and my father.

It was probable that they had some knowledge of the force moving against us. But there was yet a chance that my information might fill some crucial gaps. If Minas Tirith was still the same city I rode out from all those months ago, then the Council was even now in session, day and night, debating whether the suspicious enemy movements were isolated raids or the prelude to full-scale assault.

_Ha,_ I thought,_ that's probably where Faramir is right now._ Never mind my accursed dream. He wasn't in the River facing foes who splashed out of the darkness, he was sitting in the conference chamber arguing with Councillors who wouldn't know an Orc from an Elf.

_And,_ I thought, _better him than me._

Being Faramir, he would doubtless get through the Council session with more grace than I would. At least he usually kept his temper, instead of threatening to bind the Councillors hand and foot, abduct them from the City, and deposit them on the front lines to see for themselves if we were under attack. It must be going on fifteen years since the meeting where I uttered that particular threat. But there were Councillors who apparently still had not recovered from it, and had maintained a wary distance from me from that day to this. That was fine by me, but unfortunately their scare had not increased their ability to see beyond the ends of their noses.

Our journey that night seemed as strange and haunting as any of my dreams. The ghost lights of the Orcs' torches flickered in and out of sight in the distance. They were almost the only light I could see. The young moon, that we had glimpsed the evening before, sank this night before ever it could break through the cloud. Here and there patches of the marsh glowed a faint whitish-green. It was only some kind of glowing moss, I was sure, but the cold glimmer reminded me uncomfortably of the light that had surrounded the Elven boat in my dream. I did not ask Svip about it. I fully believed he would agree that it was moss, but a superstitious corner of my mind feared he would matter-of-factly tell me it was the spirits of the drowned.

It was fortunate that we had Svip's eyes and nose to guide us, for I was virtually paddling blind. All I would have had to guide me were the noises of the troops ahead: steady splashing, an occasional grunt or growl followed by the crack of breaking reeds, now and then weapons clanking on armour. From this distance, there was little in the sounds to distinguish them from a troop of Men passing through this same country. Only the speed of their progress set them apart. Powerful Orc legs and the brute strength that tore through the water plants assured them passage at a speed twice what Men could have accomplished.

The night must have been half gone when Svip whispered to me that we were passing another stream on our right-hand side. It might be some smaller creek, but the timing seemed about right for it to be Geirthjof, Entwash's Fifth Mouth.

If it was Geirthjof, then we had one Mouth left to go. And forty miles beyond that would lie the main current of Entwash, at the southernmost boundary of the marsh.

We would leave the marshland behind. And then we, and the Orcs, would pass into Gondor proper, into the Sun-land itself.

Hour after hour we glided through the dark. Only occasional touches of reality – the weight of the paddle in my hands, and sharp-edged reeds that had survived the Orcs' onslaught, slicing at my skin as we floated past – served to assure me that this journey was not another dream.

Svip's whispered voice woke me out of the trance-like state I had slipped into. He hissed, "I think they're stopping."

"Want me to stop paddling?" I whispered back.

"In a minute. Hang on." I heard the familiar faint scratching noise as the fingers of the reeds brushed against our boat.

Svip spoke again. "I don't think they'll see us in here. Wait here; I'll go check on them."

I rested my paddle on my knees, and waited. I listened, but the faint sounds that I caught did not seem to tell me anything. Orc voices, possibly, but too indistinct for me to guess anything from their tone. Though when I thought about it, I supposed the lack of sounds told me something after all. Either they had got much farther away from us than they had been through most of this night, or they were indeed stopped, as Svip had said. Through the night there'd been a tapestry of sound as they marched through the reeds and the water. Now there was no splashing, no crackling of trampled reeds. Only the distant, muted hint of their voices.

Another, well-known voice rose out of the water, as Svip reappeared at the boat's side.

"They're stopped, all right," he reported. "Doesn't look like they're setting up camp. They're just sitting there."

"Where?" I asked. "More islands?"

"No. Looks like there's some fairly dry land on the Western bank. They're just sat along the shore. A few are lying down, but I didn't see any bedrolls or tents out. I guess they sent out a patrol something; anyway a really big one gave some orders and ten or so of them headed inland." He paused, then went on again, a frown in his voice. "Why would they stop so early? They've got a couple good hours left till dawn."

I hazarded the guess, "They're waiting for someone. This must be their rendezvous point."

There was nothing to do but wait ourselves. Svip dove underwater to fetch us an early breakfast of fish, which I ate without really thinking about it. Only as I was flicking the last few fish bones over the side did it occur to me that I was probably going to start enjoying this stuff, if I wasn't careful. I had to grin at the thought of how scandalised Dame Weltrude, the Mistress of my Kitchen, would be, if I started sending back her culinary creations and ordering raw fish instead. Although, like most servants, I supposed, no doubt she was already firm in her conviction that we of the ruling classes are irretrievably mad.

With the fish gone, Svip suggested I let him take the first watch. I could get some sleep, then take my turn on watch once it was light enough for me to see.

That made sense, so I settled down in the boat once more with the elven cloak wrapped about me. This time, I told myself, I was not going to have any dreams. I did not care if the dreams tried to come to me; I just was not going to notice them.

Perhaps it worked, for I do not remember any dreams that came in those hours. When I woke it was not a nightmare that had torn me from sleep, it was the pre-dawn cold. I sat up and rubbed my hands to get some life into them. Coldness seemed to have seeped into my bones.

The air had grown chill with the passing of the night. As light crept in on us, the water's warmth congealed in the colder air. The night's blackness melted into grey clouds of mist.

Svip whispered that he would check again on our foes. When he returned, it was to report that they had scarcely moved since his last reconnaissance. They were still sitting by the water's edge, though he thought that more of them were asleep than had been before. A few small fires had been lit. He'd seen two of the Orcs standing inland from the rest of the group, facing West.

Svip took his pack from the boat and curled up with it to sleep. I leaned back in the boat, propped on one elbow, and watched as tendrils of mist rose among the reeds.

I could not see the sun itself, but it must have risen, for the mist was turning a sort of gleaming white as light sifted through it.

Blast, it was cold. I eyed the mist, thinking sourly that the morning was going a little far out of its way to put me in a setting appropriate for a slain warrior. With the cold and mist, I might just as well be in the barrow world, standing eternal guard against the mortals who might covet my funeral goods.

I told myself, that is quite enough of that. I decided I would do some reconnaissance of my own. As quietly as I could, I lowered myself over the side.

I moved forward cautiously, keeping as much under the cover of the reeds as possible.

The Orcs were still there, just as Svip had described them. The spreading daylight had lured more of them into sleep, but the two sentries still stood statue-like, inland. One huge Orc with a gilt breastplate and plumed helmet paced back and forth through the ranks of his seated or sleeping comrades. He kept glancing out to the water and back to the shore again, and I thought that he must be their leader, grown impatient with waiting. I wondered if his gilded armour had been taken from a slain chieftain of Men, but he would have searched long to find a Man high-ranking enough to own that armour, and massive enough for his armour to fit the Orc.

I frowned, thinking that the land around here looked familiar. I was not sure how I could tell that, shrouded as it was in the mist. But something about it stirred a memory.

I turned and crept my way back to the boat and Svip. As I neared our concealing clump of reeds, I saw something through the mist beyond. And I knew where we were.

I had been here before. Twenty, no, twenty-three years ago, I supposed, by now. It was in the Noman-Lands Campaign of 2996, the last time I saw the tree that now loomed out of the mists.

Our troops in the Entwash borderlands knew the thick-trunked, twisting cypress as the Gallows Tree. I did not know of a particular instance when anyone had been hanged from it. It was a border marker, and a place of warning. When there had been fighting nearby, the victors traditionally festooned the tree with corpses of the defeated. Twice I had seen its boughs laden with Orcs and their allies of Harad, and once, the branches had borne Men of my own company. I had helped to build the barrows under which they now lay, half a league inland along the Sixth Mouth of Entwash.

The reeds where we had hidden our boat were mere yards from the tree, and from the wide, sluggish stream that emptied into Anduin. We had reached the Sixth Mouth at last.

It was hard for me to believe that I had not known where we were. Somehow I felt that, even in the dark, I should have sensed the Gallows Tree reaching out its limbs above us.

I swam closer to the tree, struggling to see its branches through the mist. I drew a breath of relief when I saw that today the tree was empty.

At least it made sense now, that the Orcs would have stopped here. If they were waiting for others of their forces to join them, the Gallows Tree and the Sixth Mouth were landmarks that all would recognise.

Almost against my will I gazed up into the tree.

The memories had not faded in twenty-three years. It seemed that if I let the memories take me, I would live all of it again. I would feel it again when we first realised what was hanging from the tree. And again I would scale that tree, to cut down the corpses of my men.

I had felt that I owed it to them, but another motivation had set me to climbing the Gallows Tree. When I was up there, it gave a few moments when none of my living comrades could see my face. So they could not see that Denethor's heir was crying, with tears that had broken forth the instant I knew I was out of their sight.

Movement, inland beyond the Gallows Tree, jolted me to the present.

Orcs. I counted ten of them, tramping toward the shore. They must be the scouting party that Svip had reported. I assumed they had not found what they were sent after, for their dogged trudge was that of soldiers whose report will not be good.

I lowered myself deeper in the water, hoping that the Elven cloak's hood and the reeds along the riverbank would hide me from their eyes.

Then I realised it was not myself for whom I should be worried.

It was one of those moments when one seems gifted with preternatural understanding, yet it will not be enough to stop things from going horribly wrong. I could see how to avert disaster if I could go back mere seconds in time, but that didn't exactly help.

The reeds where we had hidden our boat – and where Svip was sleeping – looked thick enough from the water. And, probably, from the shore downstream, as well. Unfortunately, neither of us had bothered to check what the sight lines were like from the shore just up river.

The Orcs were stomping along by the bank of the Sixth Mouth. The one in front suddenly stopped and called out something to his fellows, pointing toward our clump of reeds.

My heart lurched with dread. Then I slipped underwater and swam toward our hiding place.

I might be making things worse, of course. Perhaps movement caused by my arrival in the reeds would lead to discovery we might otherwise have avoided. But if the Orcs had already seen the boat, they were bound to investigate it anyway. How could it get much worse?

My hands touched the base of the reeds, in the sludgy bottom. I felt my way along until I thought I should be far enough into them to perhaps avoid discovery. Then with agonising caution I raised myself toward the surface.

As my head broke through the water I found myself staring into the wide, startled eyes of Svip. In the same instant each of us put a finger to his lips, in what I suppose must be a world-wide gesture for silence.

Orc shouts sounded very near us. I heard splashing as several of them waded into the water.

I pulled out an edge of my sodden Elven cloak, and draped it over Svip. Underwater, I eased my sword from its scabbard.

The voice and splashings of the nearest Orc were all but on top of us.

Ten of them, I thought. We could perhaps take them – I had put paid to eight myself, in the fight outside Svip's house, and Svip and I had accounted for another seven, yesterday. Yet this time, the odds were not good. Even if we did conquer this ten, there was little chance that the noise of the fight would not reach their comrades. Or that we would be able to defeat all fifty, or however many Orcs might be left.

Then suddenly Svip closed his hand around my arm. I glanced at him and saw him looking even more wide-eyed than before. In a minimal gesture he nodded his head toward the boat.

I followed his gaze. And stared in utter confusion.

The boat was moving. We could see it sliding its way out of the reeds as if someone were pulling it. And yet it did not seem as if anyone was.

For one moment before the reeds began blocking it from my sight, I was sure I could see the entire boat. I could see that no one was touching it. No Orc hands had closed around the gunwale, no stick or weapon was being used to snare it. I could even see the rope, hanging from the ring on the prow. It drooped loosely into the water, with no sign of anyone using it to pull the boat free.

In near silence the boat glided from the reeds. And out of our sight.

The Orcs' voices sounded again, but this time in tones of amazement and disbelief. I wondered if they saw what we had seen: the Elven craft moving on its own, upstream.

The splashes of our enemies' footfalls started up once more, but this time moving farther away from us.

For several moments more Svip and I stayed motionless, as the splashes sounded ever further in the distance. Then the water creature whispered to me, "Wait here." Before I could stop him, he dove under and had swum out of my reach.

I swallowed back several curses. I wanted to follow and stop him, but if there was a chance the Orcs might not notice him, there was very little chance they would not notice me.

But I heard no shouts of discovery. Only the Orcs' voices, increasingly distant, murmuring in what sounded like confusion and wonder.

Svip popped back out of the water at my side. He whispered, "I think you should come see this."

I wondered if he had taken leave of his senses. But I sheathed my sword, and as silently as I could manage, I obeyed.

Svip dove under again and I followed, just managing to keep him in sight ahead of me in the green soupy water. He tugged on my sleeve and stopped, cautiously rising to the surface once more.

I had scarcely believed that we could avoid being seen. Yet as I poked my head above the water, I saw why he had been so confident that we could.

Svip had brought us to the point where Glammad the Sixth Mouth meets the Anduin. As we gazed along the Sixth Mouth's course, we saw our Elven boat, still gliding steadily upstream. The morning sun started to break through the mist, casting a golden light over the grey wood of the boat, and the tendrils of mist that played around it.

Our ten Orcs were following the boat, as if it had bewitched them. Some of them kept pace with it along the shore; some waded behind it. Ever it seemed to keep just out of their reach, gracefully slipping through the water as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a boat to pass upstream on its own.

We watched the Elven craft and the Orcs, until they rounded a bend in the stream. The reeds along Glammad's banks hid them from our sight.

The boat had taken with it a good deal of our gear: the shield, the bow and quiver, and the majority of Svip's collection of bottles. But I had no intention of following to get them back.

A moment's horror shot through me as I thought that the Horn of Gondor had been in the boat, as well. But no, I remembered, it was all right. We had stowed the Horn in Svip's pack after we started using the cloak of Lórien. And Svip's pack, that he'd been using as his pillow, was back amid the reeds.

There was nothing left to do now but go back to waiting. We swam to our last hiding place, where Svip retrieved his pack. Then we made our way across to the East shore, where the ground was still more marshy and treacherous. Here we found ourselves another nest of reeds, from which we could observe our foe across the River. I watched for them, but saw no sign of the ten Orcs returning. I half expected to see the boat return as well, making its stately way down Anduin. But I did not see it, then or ever again.

Perhaps two hours later, the Orcs' waiting was rewarded. My attention had wandered, as I stared unseeing at the Gallows Tree and tried to remember the names of the men we had lost here. I had thought I would never forget, but now two men's names were missing from my memory. I vowed I would look up their names as soon as I reached home. Then a shout from one of the sentries dragged my attention back.

A party of perhaps thirty Orcs came striding across the land. They seemed untroubled by the sunlight that had now burned off the last of the mist. Even from across the River, we could see the signs that they had recently been victorious in combat. Many of them carried bags that I assumed held their loot. I saw two Orcs carrying what were clearly saddlebags, and another with a huge sack formed of some red and gold cloth, that must have been a cape or some wall-hanging, refashioned for the Orc's purpose. Four of the Orcs were leading horses. As I watched, one big sorrel jerked at the reins and fought to tear them loose from its captor's grasp. The Orc walking alongside slammed his shield into the sorrel's neck.

I had to bite my lip to keep from yelling in frustrated rage. And had to remind myself that if I'd not thought we could successfully fight fifty Orcs, I had damned well better not go attacking eighty of them.

The leader of these new Orcs, in a black suit of armour and a rakish red cape, stood conferring with the gilt-armoured chieftain of the group we had followed. Whatever they had decided, it did not seem welcome news to Gilt Armour's troops. Their groans and snarls of protest reached us across the water. Then a bark of command from Gilt Armour silenced them and dragged them to their feet.

Gear was collected, marching order was established in a few brisk commands. The two bands set off, along the Western shore.

We followed. But it was soon clear that we had no chance of keeping up. With the boat no longer there to aid us, the Orcs outpaced us without the slightest effort.

When they were finally, irretrievably lost to sight, we altered our method of travel. We had both been swimming while the Orcs were still within eyesight. Now I got out of the water and trudged along the riverbank, while Svip alternated between swimming along beside me in his own form, and getting out and plodding on the shore for a few miles as a horse.

The Orcs were still ahead of us. That much was clear from their footprints that had churned through the mud.

In this manner we passed the next two days.

All through the day on which we had lost the boat, from dawn to dusk of the next day, and far into the afternoon of the third, we slogged along the shore. Three times we thought we saw figures moving in the distance, twice on the East bank and once on the West. But they never got close enough for us to tell what they were, or apparently, for them to see us.

The signs of the Orcs' passage went ever onward, marring the muddy bank that stretched unending ahead of us.

On the afternoon of that third day, the River Entwash broke through land that had become less of a marsh than a green, rolling plain. As I watched the Entwash pour its waters into Anduin, I felt like falling to my knees and kissing the ground. We had come to the end of the marshland.

We had also come to point where the Orcs' path diverged from ours.

Their prints and those of the captured horses veered off down the riverbank, and headed into Anduin. Svip swam across the River to check, and reported that the prints continued on the East shore, heading almost due east into North Ithilien.

I hated to lose track of them. It made little sense, I supposed, to keep following them. I needed to get to my own people, in the shortest possible amount of time. But it infuriated me to have trailed the Orcs this far, and now be left again to guess where they might be heading. They might have their eye on our North Ithilien outposts – outposts that were far- flung and isolated enough that if the Orcs found them, they could pick them off one by one with little chance of the garrisons receiving any help. Or they might still rendezvous with other war parties, massing for an attack that I thought would almost certainly be aimed at Cair Andros. If they took the island fortress, they would have its boats to aid them. Boats that would help them make a crossing further downriver. And that might turn the tide in their favour when they struck at our country's heart. A dark image played before my eyes: our troops holding the shore at Osgiliath, hewing down the Orcs that rushed at them, ever on the brink of being swept away as countless more of the enemy spewed forth from the boats they had taken from us.

I shook my head. This was not the time for visions.

We must nearly have reached my first goal. Within two miles of Entwash and Anduin's meeting point is the refuge of Lilla Howe, the hidden outpost that nestles beneath the barrow of an ancient warrior of Gondor. I did not know if any of our men would be there, but if not, I could at least leave a message there before heading on again. Our Rangers stop there frequently, and even if I could not send a messenger from Lilla Howe at once, there was every chance that one would pass through soon, find my message and send it on.

And, I thought suddenly, at Lilla Howe there would be supplies. Supplies including food – food that did not consist of weeds and raw fish.

I was almost cheerful again, despite losing the Orcs.

I was on solid ground. And it was my own ground, at last.

Svip was in good spirits, too. As the afternoon sun began moving lower in the sky, he switched into horse form – after first handing me his pack to carry, so he would not have to worry about keeping it on his back. Then he tried out his legs, galloping along and sending sprays of earth flying from his hooves. I grinned as I watched him. The air was growing warmer as we left the marshland behind. Ahead of me, Svip was galloping in great circles. I paused in the shade of a grove of trees, to take a drink of river water from one of the two canteens that had been in Svip's pack.

With the canteen to my lips, I froze.

A voice behind me said flatly, "Don't move if you want to live." And the point of a dagger pressed into my back.


	6. Chapter Six: Lilla Howe

_Chapter Six: Lilla Howe _

I formed and discarded at least four separate plans in those first seconds, as the knife-point jabbed at my back.

My unknown assailant had seized my right arm with one hand and was holding the knife in the other. I could picture various ways that I might break free and counter-attack. But I was less than convinced that I'd pull off any of them without getting myself skewered in the process.

And I might have no need to try them. Whoever he was, this fellow spoke in the accents of Gondor. There was a good chance that he was one of our soldiers. In which case, I had only to announce who I was and my troubles would be over.

Though he could always be a brigand, instead. If he were, then all bets were off.

I could no longer see Svip galloping ahead of me. I had no idea where he had got to. Hopefully, he had noticed what was happening and had changed shape to hide from this latest peril.

Well, I decided, there was no point in courting death again before I had learned what was going on.

In a mild tone, I asked, "May I move this canteen from my mouth? I can assure you I'll not attack you with it."

My captor said, "Slowly."

Slowly, then, I lowered the canteen and then stood there unmoving. "Now what?" I inquired.

"Identify yourself."

_Identify myself, eh?_ If he should prove one of our men, I was going to enjoy the look on his face when I declared my identity.

Of course, should he be a brigand, by revealing my identity I would probably only succeed in getting myself held for ransom.

_Oh__, well,_ I thought. _At least if he wants ransom out of me, there's a good chance he'll keep me alive – long enough for me to free myself, slaughter the bastard, and hang out his guts for the crows. _

So I declared, "I am Boromir, Son of the Lord Denethor. Chief Warden of the White Tower and Captain-General of Gondor."

I heard an intake of breath that did not seem to come from my captor, but from someone farther away and to the right. Silence stretched over us, then the fellow with the dagger said in a tone of sarcasm, "Then be so good as to turn and face me, My Lord. I advise no sudden moves, if you don't wish an arrow in your gut."

I sourly thought that I shouldn't mind getting an arrow in my gut. By now I ought to be used to it.

The fellow removed his grip from my arm and the knife-point from my back. I turned.

My gaze met two Men in the green and brown garb of Rangers. One, a slender, brown-haired youth who looked scarcely old enough to shave, stood to one side with bow drawn back and arrow aimed at my midriff. He clearly was the one who had gasped, and now his mouth dropped open as he stared at me. I saw the arrow waver in its aim as his hands began to shake.

The other was a warrior of grizzled middle age, his black hair and beard going grey and his weather-darkened face marked by one long, white scar from hairline to left ear. He had planted one hand on his belt and was casually resting the other on his now-sheathed dagger.

Then his casual control faltered. And I could not restrain a grin.

I recognised him full well, but I did not recognise the flabbergasted look on his face.

I greeted him cheerfully, "Hail and well met, Cirion Son of Angantyr." It was no figure of speech on my part, for I liked this Captain of the Rangers. He and I had stood allies at the last Council session I attended, when we had seemed striving to outdo each other in how loudly we could shout at the more myopic members of the Council.

Captain Cirion eyed me as if unsure whether I was more likely to change into an Orc or just vanish in a puff of smoke. "Strangely met, My Lord, that I will say," he answered grimly. "How come you here?"

"It's a long story," I said.

"Yet I would hear it," was his dogged retort.

I glanced at the brown-haired young archer. "Best let the lad put his bow away, if we're to be swapping tales," I advised. "His arms will grow tired by the end of it."

The youth's face flushed scarlet. He protested, "My arms are fine, My Lord."

The conversation ended abruptly with the drumming of hoofbeats.

Had I intended any harm toward Cirion and the boy, now would have been my moment to strike. Both of them turned instinctively to face the new enemy charging them out of the trees. In a grey blur of movement, Svip the horse bore down on them, snorting furiously like some maddened horse- shaped demon.

"Svip, no!" I yelled. "These are friends!"

Svip pulled up out of his charge just inches from the young archer. The lad took a step back and tripped over a protruding tree root. He fell onto his back. His arrow, mercifully, skidded harmlessly over the ground.

Captain Cirion had yanked his battle-axe from his belt and now stood in a half crouch, ready to leap at whichever of us might attack him first. But he, I judged, would be better able to await the next development than would the boy, who might not have that much self-control. I hurried to the young man's side, gripping his shoulder hard as he scrambled to his feet.

"Don't kill anything right now," I ordered. "We're all friends here, I swear to you. Wait and see, you'll not regret it."

The youth stared wide-eyed, from me, to the huge grey horse towering over him, and finally to Cirion. The Ranger Captain gave a curt nod, though he still eyed us as though he suspected that Sauron himself had come to pay him a visit.

"Svip," I said, "will you change shape? These gentlemen aren't used to conversations with horses."

For a long moment he still stood there, fixing the hapless youth with a menacing glare. Then for the first time I saw Svip make one of his transformations. It was so rapid I could barely realise it, as the horse suddenly shrank to the size of some miniature pony. He reared onto his hind legs and then was no horse at all, except for the residual horsiness of his long, green face. The three-foot water creature looked a good deal less threatening than had the enraged horse, but he maintained an air of challenge, as he stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt and glowered at the astonished Rangers.

"Allow me to present a friend of mine," said I. "This is Svip of Anduin, who has saved my life many times over, and who travels now to Minas Tirith to pledge his sword to our cause. Svip, let me make known to you a Captain of Gondor's Rangers, Cirion Son of Angantyr, and – "

I turned questioningly to the boy, who started and said in a wondering tone, "Holgar Son of Armod."

Svip bowed his head to them, and I wondered if he had learned that gesture from me. The others bowed back, but I was not surprised to see that the two Rangers could think of nothing to say.

Everyone seemed waiting on me to make the next move. So I said, "Let us take this discussion indoors. Too many evil eyes are abroad." I turned to Cirion. "Captain, are your men at Lilla Howe?"

"Aye," he replied, and vouchsafed nothing more. I did not grudge him his suspicion. Even in less grim days he might have been forgiven for harbouring doubts about the Steward's Heir appearing in the borderlands, from nowhere, in the company of some green shape-shifting halfling.

"We were headed there as well," I said. "Shall we go?"

Cirion's eyes narrowed as he said, "Lead the way, My Lord."

His unyielding mistrust nearly made me laugh. The Ranger Captain was beginning to remind me of Sam. Of course, I would rather have men of his stripe guard our borders, than to be welcomed by some jolly fellow who has not the brains for mistrust. It was fair enough that he should reserve judgement until I'd proven I knew the way to the hidden refuge. How could he know I was not some evil being who had stolen the Lord Boromir's shape?

I bowed to Cirion. "Gladly," I replied. "Come along, Svip."

We set out, Svip scampering at my side with the wide-eyed Holgar and the frowning Cirion keeping pace behind us. No one spoke. Svip kept casting hostile glances at the Rangers, while Cirion looked ready to slay us at the first false move. Young Holgar seemed bursting with questions, but doubtless he had too much dread of his Captain's foul mood to risk saying a word.

Our path had taken us perhaps another mile along the riverbank, when Lilla Howe reared up before us.

The terrain along that stretch of the River is such that the low, rolling hills conceal the warrior's tomb until it is nearly on top of you. Legend holds it has stood since the days of Eärnil, when it was raised to guard the bones of the Lord Lilla who saved his king from an assassin's dagger and died in his stead. It stands on a spur of land at a bend in the River, the Anduin curving around it as though cut by a great ship's prow. For centuries, it is said, a watch tower stood upon the mound. But the tower has long vanished, its existence echoed by a few scattered stones.

We stopped for moment to gaze upon the barrow, then I led our party into the last screen of trees that stood between us and the Howe.

"My Lord," Cirion said quietly. "Wait."

I halted and turned to face him. The Ranger's scowl had grown darker, if possible.

"My Lord," he repeated. "Your comrade must be blindfolded before we proceed further."

I frowned at him in surprise. I had assumed, I suppose, that the mere fact of Svip travelling as my entourage would be enough to open all the gates of Gondor wide before him. It was not flattering to discover I was wrong.

I sternly reminded myself that the Ranger was just doing his job. "That will not be necessary in this case," I said, keeping my voice calm. "I will vouch for him."

"Perhaps you forget," replied Cirion, his voice tense. "It is the law. Even had we here our allies of Rohan who had just fought at our side, they could not pass into the refuge un-blindfolded."

I hissed in a breath through my teeth, fighting not to shout at him in front of his subordinate. "Had we our allies of Rohan who had just fought at our side," I grated, "they would pass un-blindfolded so long as I was here. Gondor has few enough friends as it is. We shall have none at all if we persist in treating them as criminals."

Cirion set his jaw stubbornly. We were not going to finish this argument any time soon.

"Then change the law," he challenged. "Go to your father and the Council and make them change the law, if you can. But so long as the law stands, I will stand by it."

My temper simmered on the edge of boiling over. I fought the urge to tell him where he could stuff that particular law.

The Ranger Captain was in the right. It was the law, and a wise law for the most part. We could not have all and sundry learning the ways into our secret refuges, and it was better not to leave the individual commanders with the decision of who could be trusted and who could not.

But it maddened me to think that after everything Svip had done for me, he should be greeted not with honour but with indignities and suspicion.

"You have neglected one point in your calculations," I observed. "I know the way in to Lilla Howe. I could easily tell it to Svip, did he and I intend evil to Gondor. The secret will not be saved no matter how many blindfolds you use."

He shot back, "And how if your companion has deceived you, and intends evil without your knowing?"

My fists clenched seemingly of their own will. I had to forcibly remind myself that Cirion had no reason to trust Svip. He had not spent a week in the water being's company, and he had not seen Svip risk his life time and again to help me.

Young Holgar, standing a few paces behind his captain, was watching us with the fearful fascination of one who awaits the strike of serpent. I think it was the sight of him that held me back from yelling as though I were in a tavern brawl. The youth's wide-eyed gaze served to remind me of who I was. It was my part to lead here, not to waste time in squabbling.

I said "I will take responsibility for breaking the law, Captain. You will not suffer for it. If any seek to punish you for this they will answer to me; I place you and your men under my protection.

Anger sparked in the Ranger's eyes, and for an instant I thought he would hurl my proffered protection in my face. With a visible effort he swallowed back whatever reply he'd been about to make. Instead he answered, "Your protection will not suffice me, Lord, should peril come to Gondor because I allow strangers to see what they should not."

From beside and below me came the worried voice of Svip. He interposed hurriedly, "I can wear the blindfold. I don't mind it, really. It's all right."

I turned to him, snapping, "It is nothing of the kind. I'll not have you suffer this insult."

I should have given in, and a part of me knew that. But by now I had gone too far to back down.

And more, I kept remembering the infuriated humiliation I had felt the month before, when we'd been blindfolded on the journey into Lórien. Gimli had all my sympathy as he raged against this shameful treatment by the Elven gatekeepers. One might think that as the nine people who'd volunteered for the mission that had the great ones of Elfdom and Wizardry cowering, we should be greeted with more respect. The Lord Elrond had promised to send word to his kinsfolk and allies, that they should give us all welcome and help. But either Galadriel's folk were neither Elrond's allies nor kin, or they just did not give an Elvish damn for anyone's opinions but their own.

I'd had more than half a mind to tell them that they and their blindfolds could go to blazes. I'd nearly suggested that I, and Gimli if he so wished, should just camp outside their precious forest until the others were ready to leave. All that stopped me from doing so was the fact that I had vowed to support the quest and protect the Ringbearer. I would be doing neither if I camped at the forest's border and sulked.

Nor did I wish to hear Aragorn's inevitable snide comment about how I feared to enter the realm of the Elves because I knew myself unworthy of their hospitality.

Well, we were in Gondor now. Here I commanded. And here I had neither Elves nor Wizards nor a self-proclaimed king to order me about.

"You have heard me vouch for Svip, Cirion Son of Angantyr," I declared. "That must be enough for you. We have debated long enough."

Perhaps I could exorcise my own humiliation, by ensuring that Svip did not suffer the same treatment.

"Really," Svip insisted, reaching up and clutching at my sleeve. "I'm not insulted, I don't mind. I'll wear the blindfold."

"You will not," I ordered him. "I owe you a greater debt than I can repay. Gondor is in your debt. I will not let Men of Gondor soil your welcome with suspicion."

"My Lord," Captain Cirion protested heatedly, "no suspicion is intended. The law must be upheld – "

"This discussion is ended. No friend of mine will be insulted in this fashion while I am Captain-General in Gondor."

I stomped onward into the grove, without bothering to check if the others followed me. Windflowers, mosses and bluebells nestled in the patchy shade beneath the trees. The plants gave off a tangy scent as they crushed beneath my feet. As I neared the spot that I remembered as the entrance to the refuge, it occurred to me that I'd better hope the entrance had not been moved in the years since I'd been here. After all my declarations of how I knew the way into the Howe, I would certainly look a prize idiot if I could not find it.

But at least I did not have to deal with that embarrassment. I reached a steep little gully that looked just as I remembered. I suppose in times of sudden hard rains the gully converts into a stream, but I have never seen it thus. Without hesitation I strode halfway up the gully's far slope, to the massive moss-coated fallen tree wedged amid the rocks. Trailing grey-green moss that hung off the log like a cloak, and cunningly placed rocks below the log, rendered practically invisible the opening the log concealed.

Crouching down, I clutched the fallen tree with both hands and swung myself feet first into the tiny dark hole in the ground.

Every time one enters Lilla Howe, it is an act of faith, for the entrance seems far smaller than any space into which one could force oneself. More than once I'd suffered uncomfortable imaginings of getting stuck halfway out of the hill. But this time, as always, I made it inside with ease, the curtain of moss closing soundlessly behind me. The gash in the hill is deep enough for me to stand upright, and swathed in faint grey light that creeps in through the moss. The floor of this hole is unevenly paved with stones, to decrease the likelihood of footprints that might be found by some pursuer.

I made my way across these stones, to the large slab of rock that seems to mark the end of the passage. I took hold of it and shoved toward the right. It rolled easily aside into the crevice designed for that purpose.

"Boromir?" came Svip's whispered voice. I turned to see him crouched at the entranceway, peeking gingerly around the curtain of moss.

"It's all right," I assured him. "Come on."

I stepped through the doorway created by the removal of the rock.

A narrow stone-lined tunnel stretched beyond, disappearing into the dark. I waited a few feet within, deep enough to allow the others to follow without running into me.

First Svip appeared, followed by Holgar and finally Cirion, the three of them distinguishable only by their vastly varied bulks as they were outlined against the vague light. Cirion rolled the rock slab back into place, enclosing us in pitch darkness through which came the sounds of one of the Rangers taking up the army tinderbox that rested on its rough stone shelf just inside the passage. According to regulations, no torch can be lit in any passageway to a refuge-point until the door is closed. All soldiers of Gondor who have fought in the borderlands swiftly become proficient in the art of kindling torches in the dark. Certain pranksters have been known to move the tinderboxes, vials of alcohol and torches from their assigned places, to leave their hapless comrades fumbling about in the darkness. But I think all commanders, certainly including myself, vigorously discourage such foolishness, for the service of Gondor cannot wait while her soldiers scrabble about for hidden tinderboxes.

No prankster had been at work here. In moments the sallow light of the torch flared into life, glowing yellow on the face of Cirion who held it.

He had banished all signs of anger from his demeanour as he said, "Best let me go first, My Lord. If any of my men are within, I'd have them see me first and know that all is well before your arrival takes them by surprise."

I nodded and stepped aside to let him pass.

We made our way down the passage, Cirion in the lead followed by me and then Svip, with Holgar bringing up the rear. The tunnel's roof, lit fitfully by the torch in Cirion's hand, was a couple of inches above me, except for a few places where it dipped lower and scraped the top of my head. Twice we came to the seeming end of the path, our way blocked by a wall of three rounded, smooth stone slabs. Both times Cirion, holding the torch, glanced at me and stepped to one side, giving me further opportunities to prove that I knew the way inside. The first time I rolled aside the leftmost slab and the second time, the centre one. Both times showed again, to my relief, that Lilla Howe had not undergone any remodeling since last I was here.

When a third rock wall appeared, Captain Cirion glanced back and called briefly, "Holgar." The young archer made his way past us to shift the left- hand stone, and as it rolled into its assigned crevice, the warm torchlit glow of the Lilla Howe common room emerged from the opening before us.

Before stepping into the chamber, Cirion and Holgar both looked back at us, Holgar just seeming slightly scared and Cirion looking as though he suspected he'd delivered himself and all of his men into the clutches of the Enemy. Then the Captain walked within, followed a moment later by Holgar. I was about to follow, as well, when a sudden thought made me look down toward Svip.

The little creature stood beside me, peeking into the room with a bright, eager gaze that reminded me of the first time I had seen him. A look which suggested that everything before him was new, and held infinite fascination.

I asked him quietly, "You've never been in a dwelling place of Men before?"

He shook his head, still staring into the chamber beyond but seemingly not quite daring to step into it.

"These are not our usual habitations," I explained. "Only hiding places, for times of war. Yet they were established long ago, and have seen many generations." I smiled at the nervous anticipation on his face. "Shall we go?" I asked.

Svip nodded and whispered, "You go first."

So I stepped through into the refuge of Lilla Howe, with Svip scurrying behind me like a miniature shadow.

I think I had not known how much I missed my people and my own country, until that moment when I set eyes again upon a dwelling of Men. Though I'd felt the need to excuse these poor quarters to Svip, yet the sight of them sent a pang of homecoming through my heart. There was nothing much to the place: a low, curved, stone-slabbed roof, darkened by centuries of smoke, a few torches along the walls, barrels and crates of provisions stacked on the floor, a long trestle table and two benches set up at one side of the room, and more tables and benches, disassembled, piled with the other supplies. And yet I thought, smiling as I gazed about me, that this little room spoke as eloquently to me as the halls of Moria had spoken to Gimli.

There were only three others in the room besides Svip and myself. Cirion and Holgar stood by the table. A third Man likely a few years younger than I, clean-shaven with close-cropped red hair, had been seated at the table but now rose hurriedly as I entered the room.

Cirion had been speaking in a low tone, I suppose warning the third Man about me. But the warning cannot have been clear enough, for now I saw on this Man's face the same sort of disbelieving shock that had marked Cirion's first reaction to me.

"My Lord," the third Man managed to stammer out. I nodded to him, and Cirion said, "Lord Boromir, allow me to present Finn Son of Thorstein. He is our draughtsman; all the maps in our expedition reports are his work."

I introduced Svip again as Svip of Anduin, then crossed to the table. It was buried under maps and stacks of parchment. Finn Son of Thorstein had spread out before him a map of the Anduin shores, from the borders of North Ithilien down to Minas Tirith, and had been penning notations and numbers here and there along the shorelines.

Finn cast a questioning look at his Captain as I approached, and Cirion gave me another glance that seemed intended to measure the quality of my soul. Then with a barely audible sigh, the Ranger Captain turned back to the mapmaker. "Twelve more, here," Cirion reported, pointing to a spot on the map where a forested area was marked perhaps five miles north and a little inland of our present position. Finn nodded and sat down again, taking up his pen to note down the number at that location. Cirion went on, "A scouting party, it seemed. They seemed not actively seeking plunder nor hurrying to join other troops. While we watched, three scouts arrived and made their reports, then another five were sent out toward the River." Cirion asked Finn, "Thorolf and Buslai have not yet returned?"

Finn replied that they had not. Cirion turned to me and explained, "We are on an information-gathering mission, My Lord, sent out from Cair Andros three days ago. We are on our way back to the Fortress now, setting out again on the morrow."

I nodded. "I have had no word since I left the City last summer," I told them. "Where do we stand?"

The report they gave painted a familiar picture, but not an encouraging one. My own observations of the troop movements within the Marshland seemed to be only one portion of a much larger pattern. The Rangers' report spoke of bands of Orcs converging on our outposts and outlying settlements, from all directions. The sorties from Mordor that harried our posts along the River were increasing in strength and frequency, though we had not yet seen another concerted assault as strong as that which cost us the Osgiliath bridge.

Disturbingly, the Orcs and their like did not stand alone in these attacks. Alongside of them were increasing numbers of the Men of Harad, doubtless lured North by the Enemy with promises of plunder. Some weeks before, two armies of the Southrons that numbered upwards of four thousand Men apiece had passed through the edges of our Eastern lands, around Emyn Arnen. They were believed to have vanished into Minas Morgul itself. Cirion explained, in a tone that hinted how little pleased he was with the events he described, that our forces who had seen the Southrons' advance were too small in numbers to warrant engaging the Southerners in combat. And by the time the Council had finished debating our options, the Southrons had passed outside the reach of any force we might have sent to check their advance.

Those two Southern armies, it seemed, were not the last of the Haradrim troops making their way into Mordor. A few days past, our scouts had reported the passage of two smaller groups heading North, each numbering only in the lower hundreds. Cirion told me, "Authorising the troops necessary to halt these fellows is less troubling to the Council, it seems, than halting their main armies while we had the chance. The latest news we heard ere we set out from the Island is that the Lord Faramir has been authorised to take what troops he requires from the Ithilien garrisons, to halt these latest Southrons before they can add their spears to the Nameless One's service."

Partway through this report, I had heard young Holgar whisperingly ask Svip if he were hungry. On receiving an affirmative response, Holgar told Svip to help him set up another table and benches, to which the water creature willingly agreed. Now and again I glanced over to check on their progress. Holgar Son of Armod, not surprisingly, seemed doing most of the work, assembling the trestle table and benches while Svip scurried about laying out place settings of wooden bowls and tankards from out of the huge chest that stood open by the wall.

The mention of my brother's name pulled my attention fully back to the Rangers' report, away from the interesting sport of watching Holgar instruct Svip in the proper method of setting tables.

I asked, "Was Lord Faramir at the Island when you left it?"

"No, My Lord," answered Cirion. "He passed through on one of his inspections two weeks ago, then went back into Ithilien. Last we heard he'd returned to the City to report and request reinforcements."

So I did not yet have an eyewitness who could tell me that Faramir had been well after the time of my cursed dream. Nonetheless, I told myself, three days ago when Cirion and his Men left Cair Andros, Faramir was reported to be assembling troops for a strike against the Southrons. It was a glimmer of encouragement onto which I could hold, as I fought down my fears for my brother and tried to reassure myself that he was alive and well.

This encouragement was followed by news that cast a pall over everything.

I had asked Cirion, "Do you know if the Council has considered asking aid from Rohan, to combat these forces encroaching on our territories?"

He snorted. "Aye, My Lord, they were considering it three weeks ago when last I was in the City, but they've considered too long. Today Rohan cannot aid itself; there will be no aid for us."

I frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

Cirion's face set into a grim mask. "Yestereve we encountered a messenger from Rohan. He shared our meal before he rode on, and he told us some of the doings in his country. He did not say it directly, but I suspect he was sent to beg for aid from Gondor."

"Why?" I urged impatiently as Cirion paused. "What did he tell you?"

"The Rohirrim are attacked just as we are. Wild Men of Dunland are banding together with Orcs, and stranger things than Orcs. Fell creatures like Orcs, but stronger, and hardier against the sunlight, so the messenger said. We have seen some of these creatures ourselves, My Lord, advancing to the River from out of Rohan's plains. There have been raids upon Rohirrim settlements since the winter set in, but now, since the battle at the Isen Fords – "

He stopped abruptly with a new expression as he looked at me: not suspicious, for once, but dread-filled and perhaps even sympathetic, as if he had news that he loathed to tell me.

"What of the battle at the Fords?" I insisted.

"You have not heard?" he asked.

"I have heard nothing these eight months past. Tell me."

Quietly Cirion said, "Prince Théodred was slain in battle ten days ago."

The words hit me with raw shock. "What?" I breathed. I nearly protested "You're joking," but no soldier of Gondor would joke of such tragedy to our allies.

_Ten days ago,_ I thought. It must be the same number of days, or nearly so, that had passed since my own death. It would be too much to hope, I supposed bitterly, that the Prince of the Mark had returned from his death just as I had.

"Have you heard aught of Théoden?" I asked, when I could trust my voice to remain steady.

"Very little, My Lord. Only that he shuts himself up in his fortress and will see none but his closest kinsfolk and advisors, but 'tis said that was true before the Prince was slain."

I nodded. Already last July, when I had spent one night at Edoras early in my quest, Théoden King had vouchsafed me only the briefest possible audience, the minimum necessary to retain courtesy between our two kingdoms. That night, as we sat making a few inroads into the royal wine cellar, Prince Théodred had bemoaned the unnatural speed with which his father appeared to be ageing. The King's waking hours were become a misery – and being a generous ruler, Théodred had joked bitterly, the King graciously shared his misery with all of his court.

A chill settled over me as I thought of how deep that misery must be now.

Dragging my mind out of my grim thoughts enough to attend to what the others were saying, I took a seat at the bench and together Cirion, Finn and I pored over the maps, further discussing the movements of our enemies. I did not know if Cirion had finally decided he could trust me. More likely, I thought, he'd decided there was nothing to be gained by challenging me now, and he would just have to keep watching to determine if I were some sort of magical spy that had stolen the form of the Captain-General.

Cirion's company, I learned, had numbered seven when they set out from Cair Andros. But on the first day of their expedition they had run into a large band of Orcs. They'd managed to escape with no fatalities, but one of their number had been wounded. The next day, after they had observed six more separate bands without being discovered, Cirion determined to send dispatches back to Cair Andros reporting what they had seen. The wounded Man and one other of their comrades had taken the dispatches and departed for the Island Fortress on the day before Svip and I encountered the Rangers.

As I told the Rangers about the troops we'd observed in the Marshlands, and Finn began noting down their numbers and their probable trajectories on his maps, two more Men entered the Howe.

These two stopped short at the sight of me studying the map with their comrades. Captain Cirion rose and crossed briskly to the newcomers, and I rose as well and bowed my head to them. Cirion began, "My Lord, I present to you my second-in-command, Thorolf son of Eyjolf, and – "

Before he could introduce the second, that Man blurted joyfully, "Lord Boromir!" Immediately he recollected himself and cast an embarrassed look at his commander, a blush rapidly spreading over the portions of his face visible between the grime of travel and his beard.

"And Buslai Son of Brynjolf," Cirion finished, quellingly eyeing the one who had interrupted him.

For an instant Thorolf the second-in-command, a lean ash-blond fellow with a face like weathered granite, bore the same stunned expression as had the others when they first saw me. Then he frowned and quickly glanced over at his captain. In contrast, Buslai Son of Brynjolf kept breaking into a grin, despite his efforts to keep his visage controlled in the presence of his superior officers.

It surprised me how very pleasant it was to see someone look happy on recognising me, for a change.

I walked over to the three of them. Buslai, I realised as I neared them, was that rare phenomenon: a Man who can make me look small. He stood half a head taller than I, and had a pair of shoulders on him that suggested he made a regular hobby of lifting oxen over his head at village fairs. I did not recognise him, but I recognised his name.

"Son of Brynjolf," I repeated. "Is your father the Sergeant Brynjolf of the Cair Andros Garrison?"

"Aye, My Lord, the same," replied Buslai, his grin breaking forth once more.

"He retired, didn't he?" I asked. "Five years ago?"

"Eight years this summer, Sir."

I shook hands warmly with the huge young Man, trying to recall the last time I had seen him. "I think you must have been six years old or so the last time we met," I told him. I could not help grinning in my turn. "I'm trying very hard not to say 'how you've grown.'"

"I don't mind it, My Lord, everyone else says it."

"How is your father?"

"As vile-tempered as ever," Buslai said cheerfully. "These past few years his gout's been gaining on him, so that makes him even worse." His grin grew broader. "He'll be over the moon when I tell him I've seen you. Sir," he added, suddenly concerned that the comment might not sound respectful enough.

"Does he still tell Boromir stories?" I inquired.

"They're his favourite, My Lord. I think everyone on the Fourth Level has heard his 'I was shield-brother to the Lord Boromir when he was knee-high to a Dwarf' tales."

"Hmm," said I. "Some time I'll have to tell you my versions of them."

Captain Cirion was looking irritated, perhaps offended that Buslai should be fraternising so casually with the second-highest ranking Man in the kingdom. Or perhaps it was his fear that I might not be who or what I seemed. Perhaps he dreaded that the unsuspecting Buslai might betray the secrets of Gondor's defences while he was under my spell. But since I encouraged Buslai's fraternising, unless Cirion chose to confront me he could hardly reprimand the young soldier – not while I was there.

We were saved from what might have developed into an awkward situation, by Holgar quietly asking me if I wished to dine.

Our study of maps and troop movements was temporarily suspended, as we sat down at the table Holgar and Svip had prepared. Finn the mapmaker excused himself to take up the first shift on watch outside the Howe, which according to regulations was to run in two-hour shifts throughout the darkness hours whenever the refuge was occupied.

The newcomers looked askance at Svip when they saw him perching on one of the benches. But they managed to take his presence pretty much in stride. It occurred to me that by this time, the riddling dream that had come to Faramir and me last summer was likely public knowledge. We had spoken of it little, but we'd had to explain our decision that one of us must seek for Imladris, to our father and the Council. By now, probably most of Gondor knew of it. So perhaps now the Rangers assumed that Svip must be the halfling from our dream.

Throughout the meal Svip was relatively quiet, for him. I suppose it must have been very strange to him to be surrounded by so many people – and to see that whatever tensions might be simmering in our midst, we were not all killing each other. The majority of the questions he asked were about the food. Young Holgar seemed to have decided to take Svip under his wing, and as the cheese, bread, wine and dried apricots were passed about the table, Holgar patiently explained each item to him and showed him how to eat it.

At one time or another I happened to catch the glance of each of the others at the table, and saw most of them watching in tactfully contained amusement as Holgar introduced the water being to this aspect of our culture. The only one who did not smile as he watched them was Cirion.

After we'd dined, Cirion, Thorolf and I returned to the map-strewn table. For an hour or so our council of war continued. Then Cirion – with another of his suspicious looks at me – donned his cloak and set out through the passageway, to replace Finn on watch.

I considered accompanying him. Perhaps away from the others we could talk this through; perhaps I could say something to convince him that I was whom I seemed. Yet what could I say? What was there to say but "I really am Boromir," and what was there that some evil being in my shape would not also say?

I had offered to take one of the shifts on watch, but Cirion respectfully rejected that proposal, saying he did not wish his Men's schedule disrupted. I did not press the point, though I knew full well that was not his reason. If he'd agreed, he'd not have a moment's peace while I was outside of the Howe. He'd be convinced that I was somehow betraying Gondor, every instant I was out there.

Thorolf and I both watched him leave, I suppose both with equally grim expressions on our faces. Then Thorolf forced a thin, embarrassed smile, and said, "I'll find some bedding for you, My Lord. I think there are some more cots around here somewhere."

He left, and I picked up one of the maps at random and scowled at it. I had the feeling that if I just stared the maps down, just looked at them long enough, I should be able to see some sort of answer. Something that would change our plans and give us the chance to save the day.

The occupants of the Howe seemed easily settling into their evening's routine, scarce at all disrupted by the presence of Svip and the Captain-General. Finn, when he'd returned from his watch, wolfed down his daymeal and then took out a small red-painted lute from his pack. He sat down against one wall and began playing the lute: soft, old melodies for the most part, the melancholy little tunes that speak to every Man who longs for his home. As the lute's songs lilted hauntingly on, and I scowled at the maps, the occasional sounds of low voices and laughter reached me.

I let the map that I was holding fall to the table, and turned to watch the latest step in the education of Svip.

He had volunteered eagerly to help in clearing and taking down the dining table. As Svip and Holgar did the washing up, the water creature kept casting me hesitant, questioning glances. Each glance seemed to ask if it was all right, for him to spend time with other people than me.

I'd kept encouragingly smiling back at him, till I felt as if my muscles would cramp and the smile would freeze on my face.

Now as I turned to watch, it seemed that Svip had finally understood my message. Svip, Holgar and Buslai were sat on the earthen floor, Svip and the archer leaning over a folding hnefetafl board which they stared at in massive concentration. Buslai offered unsolicited advice on the players' next moves, advice that usually ended up with Holgar throwing something at him. I saw Svip watch one of these exchanges in alarm, but when neither of the Men followed up with violence to each other, he seemed to relax and turn his mind back to the game.

I smiled as I watched them, a smile that this time was not forced in the slightest. I felt almost like a father, the first time his son braves the outside world enough to go play with the other boys.

When I realised what I was thinking, I sighed, and picked up the map again.

"My Lord," Thorolf said quietly, sitting down on the bench opposite. "I found a cot for you, and some blankets. It's nothing much – "

"Don't worry, Thorolf," I told him. "I have been campaigning before." I added in an undertone, "And I've spent the last week sleeping in a swamp."

I saw Thorolf cast a worried look towards the passage door, then back to me. He leaned forward and said urgently, but in a voice almost too low to be heard, "Understand him, My Lord. You know what it is to fear for the lives of your Men. And to dread that through some mistake of yours, you will deliver them to disaster."

"Yes," I told him. "I know." I had to smile at Thorolf's apprehensive scowl. "Fear not, Thorolf Son of Eyjolf. Your Captain's career will suffer no ill fate through me. Nor will Gondor."

Thorolf began, "It is only that he thinks …"

"That I am some fell demon that has stolen Lord Boromir's appearance?" I asked. "Yes. I gathered that."

The Ranger looked at me in terrible earnest. "My Lord," he said. "We believed you dead."

He paused and stared hard at me, then went on. "The rumour has spread throughout Gondor. 'Tis said that the Lord your brother had a dream which spoke of your death, and that he and the Steward both believe it. And – it is known in Rohan as well. The messenger we encountered last night – he told us that Riders returning to Edoras reported encountering travellers who spoke of your death in combat, above the Great Falls."

"Travellers," I repeated, with a sudden stab of hope. "Who were these travellers? Did he describe them?"

"He said nothing more of them, My Lord."

_Who were they__? _I wondered. Aragorn and the others? Or did I dare to hope that they might be Merry and Pippin?

"My Lord," Thorolf's sombre voice went on. "We heard the Horn." I frowned at him, and he explained, "The Horn of Gondor."

The air in the chamber was warm, but I shivered. "You heard it."

"Aye. Eight, nine days ago now, it would be. About the noon. In the Ithilien Marches, nigh to where the Marsh begins, we heard it. From the North, far but clear. Ten, twelve times it called, then was silent." He looked at me steadily. "We know its call, My Lord. It could be no other."

I wanted to laugh off his words. To convince myself that the Rangers must have been imagining things – or that they might have been close enough to Rauros to truly hear the Horn's blasts. Yet that was nonsense. Even at the base of the Falls, the noise of Rauros itself would have masked the Horn from all natural hearing. And despite my brother's favourite joke that I am a blow hard, even my lungs could not make the Horn sound from Rauros to Ithilien.

The legends had always held that in time of peril, the Horn of Gondor blown by the Steward's heir will sound throughout the kingdom. I just had never truly believed it, no more than I had believed that I would someday encounter halflings – or that the King might one day return to Gondor.

Never before had reports come to me of the Horn being heard for supernatural distances when I sounded it.

But never had I blown the Horn in such desperation as I felt at Rauros.

I pondered what to say. I did not feel I had the energy nor the patience for the explanation of how I came to be alive. I would have to face it soon enough, when I reported to my father at the latest. But the fewer times I had to explain it, the better.

I said, meeting his eyes, "I swear to you, Thorolf Son of Eyjolf. I live, and I am the same Man I always was. No harm will come to Gondor through me."

He held my gaze, then gave a long sigh. "I believe you, My Lord," he said.

I shook my head ruefully. "I wish that your Captain did."

"Give him time, Sir."

The hnefetafl game broke up as Holgar stood and prepared to take up his turn on watch. Svip padded over and hopped onto the bench beside me, where he sat watching the Men in the room with bright, interested eyes.

But there was not much more to watch. One by one the Rangers were settling down to sleep. Finn had put away his lute. Cirion returned to the chamber and extinguished all of the wall torches but one, then wrapped his cloak about him and retired to his cot without another word.

I thought of something, and nearly swore.

"Svip," I said, "can you sleep out of the water?"

He looked worried. "Oh," he said. "I hadn't thought of that. Can't I go sleep in the River? It's not far."

I looked over at the back of Cirion, who I was sure was not any more asleep than I was. "Better not," I told Svip quietly. "The Captain's afraid we might be spies; if he sees you leave the Howe he'll think you're going to the enemy."

"Oh."

"Leave it to me," I told him.

After brief whispered consultation with Thorolf I had soon constructed a bed of sorts: the large wooden bowl Holgar had used for the washing up, filled with water, with Svip's pack on top of a small barrel for his pillow.

Svip seemed to approve. He tugged the bowl and barrel over to the foot of the folding cot that Thorolf had found for me, hopped in, and was snoring almost immediately.

Thorolf watched this in amused disbelief, but made no comment. As I got into bed myself, I hoped that no one in the middle of the night would mistake Svip's bed for a chamber pot.

Any soldier should be able to sleep to the sound of multiple levels of snoring, so I do not think it was that which kept me awake. All the same, as I lay there in the dim of the Howe, sleep was long in coming.

My father and brother knew of my death – or at any rate, they knew enough that they believed in it.

I had hoped I might make my way home before Father heard of it. The news that I had not, made me want to run from the Howe and set out for Minas Tirith this instant, never stopping until I could embrace my father and beg his forgiveness for the grief I had caused him.

And apologise to Faramir for whatever Father had put him through while sorrowing over me.

Hopefully they had spent little time in each other's presence since the rumours came. But whatever time they had spent, it was bound to be too long.

I could hope, I supposed, that shared grief would bring them closer together, but the likelihood was so remote it was barely worth considering.

Valar's blood, once Father got over the shock of seeing me again, his fury was going to be legendary. If I survived to return home, I'd be lucky to survive Father's rage at me for putting him through this.

But it would be worth it. No doubt I'd think differently when it was happening, but at this moment I thought I would give a lot just to be standing there in the Tower Hall listening to the Lord Steward enumerate my short–comings.

At least Father and I still had the chance to yell at other. Which was more than Théoden King and Prince Théodred had left to them.

Damnation, I wished Svip and I had encountered these Rangers a day earlier, before they met up with the messenger from Rohan. I would dearly have loved the chance to question him, both on the identity of the travellers who'd spoken of my death, and for more details on how Rohan's Prince had met his end.

We were the same age, my brother-in-law and I, Théodred born just one month after I was. And now it seemed that we had been killed within a day of each other, as well.

When we were young warriors planning our glorious careers, we would probably have enjoyed the idea of perishing nobly at the same time. But we would have imagined it with both of us in the same epoch-making battle, probably fighting back-to-back with our slain enemies heaped in a circle about us, and not breathing our last until our grieving comrades had informed us that the day was won and the enemies of Gondor and Rohan had been vanquished forever.

Dying far apart while our kingdoms still hung on the brink of disaster had not been among our plans.

I thought again of how terrible Théoden's grief must be now. At least my father still had Faramir – little though he would admit to taking solace in that, either to Faramir or to himself. Théoden King had nothing.

Every parent has to face the knowledge that they will likely outlive some of their children. Perhaps it was not always thus; perhaps in that golden, olden time that Faramir goes on about, one could be sure of dying in bed surrounded by one's weeping children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. But that world is long gone, if it ever existed.

Children die. But to lose all of one's children …

To be left with the memory of their voices and faces, and the bitter truth that one will never see them again …

I thought of Théoden, with his daughters stolen by death five years ago, and now robbed of his only son.

When we got through this – if we got through this – I would have to go to Rohan to pay my respects. Though I did not know if that would be any comfort at all, or if seeing me alive would just further twist the knife that I had been restored to my father and Théodred had not.

Memories raced through my mind.

Théodred's last joking warning to me as I rode from the courtyard at Edoras eight months before: "Watch out for those Elves!"

Théodred getting heroically drunk at the feast when Théodhild and I were married – one of our first tasks as husband and wife the next day was to visit her hungover brother and try to convince him to drink some soup. He barely touched a drop when Faramir and Éoflæd wed the year after, declaring that one performance as the vomiting brother-in-law was enough.

I remembered Théodred at the funeral of his sisters: it had appropriately started to rain, a dank, comfortless drizzle squeezed out from the foul summer air, and I would never forget Théodred's pallid face with his wet hair plastered to his forehead, and the grim set of his chin, and his haunted stare as he and Faramir and I walked side by side down the Silent Street, through the rain, in the funeral procession of the women we loved.

I sighed in the torchlit darkness, thinking of the last time I had seen my brother-in-law, and the quick, casual handshake just before I rode away.

He had died for his country, as I knew he would have chosen – if he couldn't have death at age two hundred with all his descendants sobbing copiously and saying they didn't know how they'd get along without him. He had died for his country, which perhaps was all that any of us could hope for in these days.

Yet I wished he could have continued to live for his country, and to fight for it, instead. I wished that once more I could ride into battle with Théodred at my side.

I drifted into sleep clinging to the hope that someday I would stand at Théodred's tomb, and tell him that the foes of Gondor and Rohan were vanquished forever.

Svip slept later than usual the next morning, and I wondered if this were the first time he had slept in an entirely enclosed space without the morning light to wake him.

The Rangers picked their way gingerly around the sleeping water creature in the washing-up bowl as they breakfasted and packed up their gear, for the most part manfully restraining themselves from making humorous comments.

When Svip did awaken, as the tables were being disassembled, he hopped out of his bowl dripping but alert and immediately volunteered to help with the packing. After making him dry his hands, Finn allowed him to help stow the expedition's maps in the various packs and satchels set aside for that purpose. I nearly yelled out a warning against this, remembering the abysmal condition of the items in Svip's "library." But Svip, as I should have realised by now, was a swift learner, and he seemed genuinely concerned with mimicking Finn exactly in the ways he folded, bound or rolled the various maps.

I was sat on the folding cot I had slept on, hastily penning a letter as the contents of the room were packed up around me.

Cirion had told me, almost managing to conceal his distrust, that he was leaving a packet of dispatches here in the Howe, copies of some of the reports and maps he and his Men were bringing back to Cair Andros. The copied packet would be here for any Horse Messenger of Gondor who might pass through, and if it should be picked up by such a Messenger it could easily overtake Cirion's party, travelling on foot. Even if it only reached the Island Fortress a few hours before we did, in times such as these those hours could be crucial.

Cirion inquired if I wished to add anything to these dispatches. So there I was, scribbling out a letter to my father.

I meant to send one from Cair Andros as soon as I got there, so if this one should happen to reach the Island first and be sent on from there, so much the better.

I scarcely knew what to say, so I kept it as matter-of-fact as possible. I apologised for my lengthy absence, reported that a companion and I had reached Lilla Howe and were travelling on with a party of Rangers, and added my emphatic corroboration to what Cirion stated in his reports, that the enemy was converging on our borders and we must take steps to reinforce the border garrisons immediately.

I wanted to avoid broaching the subject of my death entirely. Yet if my father was under the assumption that I was dead, it would hardly be fair to him to write some casual little missive as if I had no idea that he must be mourning me for lost. After a few minutes of wrestling with what to say and chewing the pen nearly into shreds, I ended with the brief statement that I knew there were reports of my death, I apologised for any distress they might have caused him, and said that further explanation must wait until I stood before him. That should do the trick; it was not any eloquent piece of writing, but Father would not expect such from me. He might suspect that the letter was not written by me at all, should it prove to be too flowery.

This letter I added to the other reports, after first insisting that Cirion read it to be sure it held no treasonable content. He protested, saying there was no need for that, but I told him I would not ask him to include any item in his dispatches without first knowing what it contained. The grizzled warrior was blushing a little as he read it, and gruffly said, "Very good, My Lord," as he refolded the letter and placed it in the leathern pack with his reports on a shelf in the refuge's main chamber, not looking at me as he did so.

Outside the Howe, it was a glorious morning. The early sun glimmered brightly through the tree trunks as we made our way single-file along the wooded gully.

I went first, I think more because Cirion did not want me in a position where I could stab any of his Men in the back than because my rank naturally granted me that position of leadership. Svip scampered along back and forth on either side of our column, more than ever like an excitable dog or a child as he sniffed at flowers, investigated rotten tree stumps, and poked his head into animal burrows. Fortunately the occupants of the burrows were either asleep, not at home, or too terrorised by the unknown scent of the water being to emerge and bite off his nose.

A few minutes into our journey I began to realise that something else was worrying me besides the question of whether Svip would get attacked by a badger.

I had the sense of something being wrong. Nothing on which I could grab hold, just the fleeting yet ever-present feel of danger closing in around us.

_Of course there's danger,_ I snapped at myself. _There is always danger; what else is new?_

Yet the feeling did not go away.

I glanced over my shoulder several times, though not as many times as I wished. Certainly no peril was visible behind us or anywhere else, but that did not aid my state of mind. I did not wish to alarm the others by acting like some nervous little schoolgirl, but at the same time I could not shake the sensation that danger was rolling in on us like some loathsome invisible fog.

This was getting annoying. I was experiencing entirely too much of this sort of thing lately. My dream of being trapped in my funeral boat, forebodings of harm to Faramir and doom to Minas Tirith, and now this.

_For heaven's sake,_ I thought irritably. _I'm turning into my brother. Next thing you know, I'll be spending my spare time in the library, running around with Wizards, and giving impromptu lectures on how everything's gone downhill since the days of Númenor. _

Yet my annoyance was not a good enough reason to ignore the warning, if warning it should prove to be. I headed back to Cirion at the rear of the column, the Ranger Captain showing great restraint in not breaking into any move of defence or attack at my unexpected action.

"Captain," I said to him quietly as we walked on, "I know not if it means anything, but I have been sensing the approach of danger. If there are any steps you would take to be on a heightened state of alert, I suggest that you take them."

Cirion's face got grimmer than usual. "Aye, My Lord," he said, and he spoke in a low tone to various of the others as I made my way back up to the front. I did not know if I'd accomplished anything, or if indeed there had been anything to accomplish. It was not as if Rangers would normally stroll around through threatened territory without keeping their eyes open.

One thing at least I could do: when Svip scurried near me again I told him, "Better stay close by me. And see if you smell any danger; I think we may be being followed."

He nodded solemnly and fell into step beside me.

We followed the gully out of the trees and down toward the River. There would be few stretches of tree cover along our path for the next day or so, and rather than make ourselves targets by walking through the open grasslands, we headed down the twenty- foot slope of the riverbank to the narrow strip of silty, water-logged shore along Anduin's edge.

As we scrambled down through the long, rustling grasses of the bank, Svip gave a happy squeak and ran on ahead, diving into the water.

I, too, paused for a quick drink of the Anduin's water and to wash my face in it when we reached the bottom of the slope. The result was peculiar. When I felt the water on my skin and coursing down my throat, it seemed to increase my strength and alertness tenfold. It gave the morning light a new clarity and deepened the blue of the sky, as if some faded artwork had been painted anew.

Yet despite the vigour and optimism that came to me with the River water, my sense of foreboding still lurked just beneath the surface. As we trooped along, the Rangers in file behind me and Svip keeping pace with me a few feet off the shore, I had the feeling that my dread would take solid form at any moment. I would see it rising like black smoke about my feet, and smell it, oozing around me like the miasma from a cesspit.

I could not smell anything amiss, despite my dread. But Svip suddenly stopped swimming. When I looked over at him he was treading water and sniffing at the air.

An instant later a low, whistling bird call sounded from the rear of the column. Every Man of us recognised the signal: the command to hide.

"Svip," I hissed, "get over here now."

The Rangers, almost as one Man, crouched back into the tall grasses of the bank. I did the same, and Svip hastily swam to the shore and launched himself into the grass beside me.

I craned my neck to see behind us along the River, through the grasses and around my comrades doing the same thing.

Perhaps a hundred yards behind us, large dark figures were making their way down the slope of the riverbank just as we had done. Large dark figures that could almost have been Men, but were not so.

It was hard to tell how many of them there might be, for portions of the bank periodically hid them from my gaze.

As they reached the water they began loping toward us with peculiar, huge, distance-eating strides that made all too clear what they were, even had it not been the obvious guess. Orcs.

My stomach knotted as an unwanted memory hit me of Orc after Orc appearing like hideous phantoms through the trees of Amon Hen.

_Stop it,_ I told myself. _You've just got another chance to get your own back for that. That's all. _

Cirion had scrambled a few feet up the slope and now caught my eye, gesturing with his thumb toward the top of the bank. I nodded.

The Ranger Captain gave another low whistle that meant "Follow me."

It was a sensible plan. If we could get to the top of the riverbank before the Orcs realised it, we could pick them off from above and have most of them dead before they could even get within sword's reach of us.

Cirion and the two Rangers who were crouched nearest to him, Holgar and Buslai, began picking their way up a narrow cut in the riverbank, that was probably used by animals of the grasslands as an easy path down to water. The path cut diagonally back along the slope. At the rate the two parties were moving, it would probably bring the Rangers to the top of the hill just as the Orcs jogged by beneath them.

I looked rapidly about. There was a little distance separating the grasses into which Thorolf, Finn, Svip and I had thrown ourselves, from the hollow in the slope where the others had been hiding. Now I saw that another small ravine cut up the slope from about where we were, and would take us to a rock outcropping on the crest of the bank.

Thorolf and Finn both had their bows and well-stocked quivers. The rocks would give us something at our backs, and from the greater height of the outcropping, the archers might be able to get a clearer aim at some of our victims below.

I hissed, "We'll head for those rocks." Thorolf, Finn and Svip nodded.

We started clambering up the ravine. In most places it was deep enough that the grass growing around it hid us easily. But this stretch of the incline was also fairly rocky, and the climb entailed a painstaking process of grabbing and setting aside the rocks that we'd knocked loose before they could go tumbling downhill and alert the Orcs. This became Svip's main task; as the rest of us climbed doggedly upward he would race around us capturing the sliding rocks.

About halfway up the slope I heard a whispered exclamation from Thorolf: "Ah, damn." An instant later he gave the bird call signal that meant "Look out."

I glanced back and saw what he had seen.

The Orcs down along the water were not alone. Another band was loping parallel to them along the top of the riverbank. And if they kept going, Cirion and the others would emerge at the crest of the slope right in the middle of them.

Cirion saw them. Through the grasses I could just barely make out that the three Rangers had started to pick their way back down the slope. The Captain must mean to make a stand down by the River, instead of climbing into the arms of the Orcs.

But we were still some distance ahead of the party on the riverbank. I thought we could still make it to the rocks, and perhaps take the Orcs by surprise while they were focused on the others by the water.

"Come on," I hissed, and started at a crouching run up the ravine.

We scrambled up the slope, caring little now for the rocks that we set flying.

An Orcish shout roared out, but a quick glance showed it was not aimed at us. Cirion, Buslai and Holgar had broken cover and were racing to take up position in front of another rock outcropping that stood a few feet into the river, a greyish cone shape that must be part of the same formation that caused the outcrop above us. The Orcs along the water's edge redoubled their speed, and those above were starting toward the slope.

We broke cover as well and ran for the rocks. I caught glimpses of Thorolf and Finn readying their bows as we ran.

The two archers leapt up the outcrop like mountain goats. I grabbed Svip and swung him up into a little cave in the rock, ordering "Stay in there and don't come out." Then I planted myself on a ledge near the base of the outcrop, feeling rather useless and wishing I'd helped myself to a bow and arrows from the supplies at Lilla Howe. But there'd be a use for me soon enough, when the Orcs realised we were here.

Finn and Thorolf both fired, and both of their arrows told. One Orc plummeted at the top of the slope and rolled part of the way down; another fell to his knees and was struggling up again when a second arrow from Finn's bow lodged in his throat.

With a howling roar the Orcs turned to face us.

The Rangers picked off a few more that were still heading down the slope towards Cirion and the others. Then they needed all of their attention and their arrows for the Orcs running at us.

Four more Orcs were felled by arrows before they reached the rock. Then the wave broke on us.

Arrows continued to sing overhead as I swung my sword at any Orc that leapt within range. After the first four I mowed down, the rest held back for a moment. But their distance gave them no protection from the arrows, and they rushed in upon us again.

My sword stuck in the rib cage of one, and I had to brace my foot on his chest and kick him away in order to yank the sword loose. Another Orc lunged at me while I was still tugging, and only my awkward fall backward as my blade jerked free saved me from the Orc's battle axe cleaving me in half. I managed to impale this Orc while he was still recovering from his lunge, then I scrambled back up to a standing position to await the next onslaught.

Three more Orcs were running at me, but suddenly a huge grey embodiment of rage burst at them from around the rock. Svip reared and his front hooves collided with one Orc's chin, with a loud popping crack that told he'd broken his enemy's neck. The other two Orcs fell back in confusion, almost running over more of their comrades who were now crouching in the grasses in the hope of avoiding the arrows.

The grey horse yelled at me, "Jump onto my back!"

"I'm not running away," I shouted at him.

"I know!" he yelled. "Neither am I! Jump on!"

My Rohirrim relatives would probably have laid very large wagers that I would not be able to manage it, but somehow I seized hold of his mane and dragged myself onto his back. I was barely set, before he charged toward the Orcs. With my left hand wrapped in his mane and my legs clamped as tightly around his sides as I could manage, I swung my sword down at the Orcs as we galloped past.

I felt the sword make contact with one of them as blood sprayed up out of the grass. Svip wheeled around for another pass.

This time the Orcs managed to leap out of the way, though one succeeded only in getting himself dropped by an arrow. I leaned over Svip's right side to make another swing at the nearest Orc, and suddenly Svip charged to the left. I overbalanced and nearly tumbled off him, managing to save myself with my face pressed into his shoulder and the fingers of my left hand digging into his neck.

"Ow!" Svip yelled. "That hurts!"

I raged back, "You ran the wrong way!"

Clawing into an upright posture, I hacked at the next Orc we passed, and his head went flying.

Not many of our opponents were left. Only three that I could see, and one of these three suddenly crumpled with an arrow in his forehead.

From below us by the River, rang the bright, clear call of a horn.

Finn the mapmaker yelled, "Cirion!" and I saw him leap from the rocks and run toward the slope.

"Let's finish this," I called to Svip, and he snorted in agreement. We charged one of the two remaining Orcs and literally ran him over, Svip knocking him off his feet and I leaning over and slashing open his torso as he struggled to get up once more.

Our last Orc fell to one of Thorolf's arrows. After a pause to make sure that nothing else was moving, the Ranger also raced down from the outcrop and started for the riverbank.

Svip the horse craned his head around in an attempt to look at me. "Hold on tight," he said, and he started galloping toward the bank.

I have to admit that the thought which shot through my head was, _We're going to die._ I sheathed my sword as we jolted along, then plastered myself to Svip's back, clinging with both arms around his neck and maintaining a litany of swearwords under my breath as Svip flung himself – and me – down the slope.

To this day I do not know how we avoided breaking our necks. Rocks and earth flew under Svip's hooves, and I am sure we skidded down the last ten feet. Somehow we reached the bottom still upright and with me still on his back. I was wildly thinking that I had to get Svip to promise never, ever to do that again. But as I thought that, the shape-shifter was already charging for the nearest cluster of Orcs. I dragged my sword from its scabbard once more.

Cirion and Holgar still stood with their backs to the cone of rock, but I saw no sign of Buslai or Finn. The Captain and the archer were hard-pressed, Holgar firing as swiftly as he could into the mass of Orcs ranged against them and Cirion swinging his axe in great arcs, cutting a swathe through any of the beasts that came near enough. Svip and I ploughed into the Orcs, and the scene erupted into a frenzy of hooves, swords, axes, arrows, and the splashing of water and blood.

Three of the Orcs leapt at me, trying to drag me off of Svip's back. I hacked down at them, blood welling from the claw marks where their hands had dragged at me. Svip reared, once more nearly sending me tumbling. Then as he splashed back onto all fours and I kept hewing about me, I saw Svip catch one of the Orcs in his strong horse teeth and shake him as a dog shakes a rat. He hurled the Orc aside, and that Orc did not move again.

I suddenly saw Finn. The mapmaker must have charged the Orcs who surrounded Cirion and Holgar, rather than holding back and firing from a safe distance. I caught a glimpse of his prostrate form half under the water. A gigantic Orc, larger than any I had seen at close quarters apart from some of those at Amon Hen, had his massive booted foot planted on Finn's chest. He held the Ranger under, all the while swinging his lance at Cirion.

"Svip!" I yelled. "Make for the Orc with the spear!"

He obeyed, but our way again was blocked by a yelling mass and a hedge of axes and swords.

As I hacked, I heard arrows whistling nearby, and I realised that Thorolf must have reached the bottom of the hill and had once more joined in the fray. With each twang of his bow, the number of Orcs around us thinned.

We surged forward, Svip trampling over bodies while I hewed at those that were still standing. The Orc with the spear whirled to face us, and Svip barely managed to wheel away without getting himself impaled.

This time, finally, I fell. I tumbled into the water with jolting impact, and desperately hurled myself away from Svip's hooves. Through the insanely churning water I saw the Orc spearman standing only a few feet away from me, arcing his spear around him and holding back both Cirion and Svip.

I lunged gracelessly at the spearman, grabbing him around the waist and driving my sword upwards into his back. As the spearman staggered, Cirion charged and buried his axe in the Orc's skull.

Cirion, the Orc and I all fell. As the Captain and I struggled up once more and the Orc spearman floated within a spreading circle of blood, I realised that no Orcs were left standing.

Cirion had already leapt to where Finn now lay bobbing in the water. I followed, dragging away the Orc's corpse which was half on top of Finn.

As Cirion pulled the mapmaker up out of the River, I looked around counting our comrades. Thorolf, Holgar and Svip all were standing. I still could see nothing of Buslai.

"Svip," I yelled, "go find Buslai!"

The horse nodded once and splashed away.

Cirion was dragging Finn toward the shore, and I pitched in, taking hold of his feet. Holgar had been standing motionless by the rock ever since the last of our opponents fell, but now he shook himself free from the shock and ran after us.

Cirion swore as we laid Finn down at the water's edge. The younger Man lay unmoving, his face a ghastly pallid hue. His eyes and mouth both were open, in a blank frozen mask of disbelief and pain. Cirion heaved him over onto his side and pounded on his back and his chest. Water gushed from Finn's mouth and his body seemed wracked by one gigantic struggling breath, but it was illusion only and after that he did not move.

As Cirion rolled him onto his back again and was pumping his hands down over Finn's heart, a cry sounded from downriver, "He's here! I've found him."

Thorolf and I ran toward the cry. We found Svip back in his own form, trying vainly to flip over the body of young Buslai that lay face down in the water. Buslai had clearly been carried downriver by the current, and fetched up against a grey, lifeless fallen tree, in which one of his arms was tangled. Together Thorolf and I managed to heave him onto his back, Svip meanwhile working to free his arm from the tree limbs.

Buslai Son of Brynjolf had a bruised, angry cut on his forehead, though the blood had been washed away from it. The cut did not look that bad, but it could easily have knocked him out. His eyes were shut and his face hideously pale, and he was as motionless as Finn.

Between us we managed to drag him to land. Thorolf and I forced the water from out of him and struggled to make him breathe.

I'm not sure how long this went on before I distantly heard Thorolf say, "It's no good, My Lord. It's no good."

The thought kept running in useless fury through my mind, _I won't allow this_.

We were a silent and wretched company that stood upon the shore, when we had finally given up all attempts to revive our comrades.

We had slain over forty Orcs. Yet the price had been far too high.

Cirion's voice cut roughly through the silence. "We will take them back to the Howe," he said. "And bury them there."

Svip, in a quiet and half-choked voice, volunteered to change back into horse form and carry their bodies. In the end, the rest of us decided it was asking too much for him to carry both of them. So we manoeuvred Buslai over Svip's back, then Cirion and Thorolf took up Finn. Unsteadily picking our way, we struggled up the riverbank, Holgar and I walking at either side of Svip to make sure Buslai's corpse did not slide off of him.

As we walked, I saw that Holgar was silently crying. I envied him his youth, and wished I were still young enough for the tears to flow at times such as this.

At the top of the slope we halted to recover our breath. Thorolf jogged back to the rock outcropping where we had fought, and recovered from a crevice the satchels of maps that Finn had been carrying.

In silence broken only by our footfalls, we started back for Lilla Howe.

The thought still kept pounding through my mind, pointlessly stupid though it was_, I will not allow this. I will not allow this. I will not let this happen. _

There are Men who say that they fight for the sheer joy of combat. But I am not one of them and I cannot understand them, however much my brother might accuse me of being one of their number.

If one always fought alone, with only one's own life at stake, then perhaps I could understand it. But the joy dies at the close of each battle, when you have to count your dead. When you fight with your own impotent rage, and with the thoughts that come too late, tauntingly showing all the ways it could have been different. The ways they could have been saved.

The passage into Lilla Howe was too small for Svip's horse shape, so we rearranged our duties. Svip, in his own form, went first, carrying the torch ahead of us. Then came Thorolf and Holgar bearing Finn, and Cirion and I bearing Buslai.

We laid them down on the floor of the chamber that we had left not two hours before.

"We will bury them in the main chamber," Cirion declared. "The spirits of the Howe will welcome two fellow warriors."

Cirion and Thorolf set off through a second passage that had been hidden up until now, its rock-sealed entrance concealed behind the stacks of benches and tables. The passage, I knew, led upward, into the Lord Lilla's burial chamber high above us. In the ages that had passed, the ancient warrior's corpse had vanished, whether lost to grave robbers or simply to the ravages of time, none alive could say. But there were small, rock-lined rooms all around the main burial hall. In these, their entrances sealed again with stone, Finn Son of Thorstein and Buslai Son of Brynjolf could lie in honour. Perhaps their spirits would remain to protect the men of Gondor who sheltered at the Howe in days to come.

Holgar and Svip both sat on the floor, near the corpses of our comrades. Holgar was crying harder now, still with almost no sound, but with sobs that wracked his entire frame. Svip sat with his knees drawn up to his chin, never taking his gaze from the dead Men's faces.

I was pacing about the chamber, the action as hatefully useless as everything else that I could imagine doing.

I kept thinking that there should have been some way, _must_ have been some way I could have stopped this from happening.

I thought about killing Orcs. Imagined hacking into hundreds of them, rending their bodies apart, in the hopeless attempt not to think of Buslai and Finn.

I realised how little I knew of Finn Son of Thorstein. Not whether his parents lived, nor if he were married and if he had children, not even from whence he hailed. I wished I had talked with him last night and found out more about him. Although, I told myself bitterly, that would not have saved him.

And at this moment, I knew more than I wished, of Buslai Son of Brynjolf.

I could picture his father in the sitting room of their home in Minas Tirith, his gouty foot up on a stool, with a mug of beer before him, holding forth to all who would listen about his brave, glorious son out fighting in the service of Gondor.

And I could picture the blank denial that would fill his face when the news came. And then the terrible understanding that would follow.

_No,_ I thought furiously. _No. I cannot let this happen. _

Gondor already had too many grieving fathers.

_And it will have more,_ I snarled back at myself. _Grieving fathers, and mothers, and children, and there's nothing you can do to stop it._

_But there should be,_ my mind insisted. _There must be._

And then the thought came to me, _There is a way. There is one._

_You _know_ that there is one. _

As the realisation rushed over me, I could not comprehend why it had taken me this long to think of it.

I knelt beside Svip, and whispered urgently, "Svip. Do you have any silverweed with you? Or does it grow around here? Can you find some?"

He stared up at me. "What are you talking about?" he whispered.

"Can you bring them back?"

Svip's eyes widened in horrified shock. "But they drowned," he hissed at me. "They drowned."

"Well? Can you?"

"Don't you remember?" he insisted desperately. "The River. If we take them back, It'll come after us."

"We're not in the River," I argued. "Can It come after us here?"

"I don't know," Svip breathed in a haunted tone. "But I think It can."

"Svip," I said, gripping one of his shoulders. "I'm begging you. Please. They're my people; I can't let them die."

My people _were_ dying, of course. They were dying by the thousands, and there was nothing I could do.

But this time there _was_ something. And when I had the chance to save even just two of them, to stop even two families from grieving, I could not let that chance go.

"Svip, please."

"I can't do it," he breathed. "I can't."

Holgar's sobs had ceased as he listened in growing wonder. Now he asked, "Can you help them?"

"No!" Svip yelled. "I can't!"

"Please," Holgar whispered. "If there's anything you can do – please."

Svip looked frantically from one of us to the other. I felt a twinge of guilt at what we were doing to him – but not enough guilt for me to stop.

"Svip, listen," I said. "They welcomed you into their dwelling. They shared their food with you and made you part of their company. You can't repay that by refusing to help, when you have the ability to save them. You said you wanted to learn about the ways of Men. Well, no Man would let his comrades die, when by his actions he could restore their lives to them."

"Please, Svip," Holgar whispered again. "Please."

The water being looked near to tears. Then he gazed down at the two drowned Men – and then reached for one of the shiny bits of glass and other trinkets he had sewn to the collar of his tunic.

I hadn't looked closely enough to notice it before, despite all the time we had spent in each other's company. Now I saw that it was a small glass flask with a stopper, with a cord of the fabric from his tunic tied about the flask's handle.

"I brought some just in case," Svip said defensively, not looking at me. "It's good for wounds, too, you know. Not just for the dead." Svip looked at Holgar. "You've got to open up their clothing," he said. "Over their lungs. It needs to touch their skin."

Hurriedly Holgar moved to open Finn's sodden clothes over his chest, and I did the same for Buslai. I think my hands shook a little as I did so. I was just beginning to wonder if maybe Svip was right. Being brought back to life had worked out fine for me, but how did I know what would it would do to them? And what if Svip was right about the River? It would do no good to bring Finn and Buslai back, if by taking on the River I got all of us killed.

But how could I go home – how could I go back to the City where Sergeant Brynjolf waited for his son – if I had the chance to save his son's life and I did not try?

Svip turned one last glare on Holgar and on me. Then he unstoppered the flask and poured some thick, dark green salve onto his hand. This he rubbed over their chests, first Buslai's and then Finn's.

Svip was whispering something, but I could not hear what he said, nor did I try to.

As Svip was rubbing the last of the salve over Finn's lungs, Cirion and Thorolf returned from the burial chamber. And stopped, frozen, just inside the doorway.

"What are you doing?" Cirion grated in a tone of fury, his hand flying to his axe hilt. "What are you doing to them?"

"Wait, sir!" Holgar pleaded. "Wait! He can bring them back."

"What?"

For a moment all of us seemed trapped in an appalling silence. It closed in on us like the silence of the tomb, where no sound will ever be heard again.

Then suddenly Buslai's chest, beneath the green salve, began to move.

He drew in a tortured breath. Captain Cirion dropped to his knees by the young Ranger's side.

Finn twitched and gasped, then sat up so suddenly that he knocked Svip away from him. The mapmaker blinked and stared around at all of us. Then he asked in a choked whisper, "What happened?"

Buslai groaned.

Everyone stared for another instant, then I think they all began to talk at once. All except for me and for Svip.

I looked over at him, and saw to my relief that he had a faint smile on his face as he picked himself up and watched while the other Rangers yelled and laughed and embraced their fallen comrades.

"Svip – " I began.

Then I heard something else. Like some huge animal roaring in the deep. An animal, or something worse. As if the Balrog were coming for us, but was still far away. Just close enough to let us know that he was coming, and that this time none of us would escape.

Once more I knew that there was some danger behind us. And this time, when I turned to look, I saw it.

A dark trickle of water oozed under the stone blocking the passageway into Lilla Howe. A trickle of water followed by another, and another. And then all the floor near the passageway was wet, as the water, still just a puddle, moved toward us.

Svip stood up and crossed to stand beside me. And he said, "I told you so."


	7. Chapter Seven: The Wrath of the River

_Chapter Seven: The Wrath of the River _

The water crept across the dirt floor. A long tendril of it stretched out toward us.

If it did not get any worse than this, we need fear no more terrible fate than getting our boots wet. But I had little hope that we would get off that lightly. If the River were angry enough to send its waters after us, it would hardly stop at wetting our feet.

"We've got to get to higher ground," I said, still staring at the water. I shook myself free of the compulsion to stare at it, and turned to Cirion. I repeated, "We have to get to higher ground. Let's get everyone moving; we'll head for the burial chamber."

Cirion stood up, eyeing the water in disbelief. "What in the …?" he began.

I said bitterly, "The River isn't pleased that we took back two of its victims." _And_, I added silently, _because of my damned reckless stupidity it's now going to take all of us instead of just two_.

But that hadn't happened yet, and if I had any say, it wasn't going to.

A little moaning yelp from Svip made me glance back toward the passage door. Water was now seeping around the sides and the top of the rock that blocked the passageway.

"Move," I ordered. "Now."

I hurried to the others and lent my strength to the chore of heaving Buslai to his feet. Even with Thorolf at one of his shoulders and me at the other, it still felt as if we were trying to lift the Pillars of Argonath. Buslai at least seemed fully awake by now, though he did look understandably confused. "What's going on?" he murmured, as we got him upright.

"We're getting out of here," was my reply. Time enough later for the more detailed explanations, such as, _We're getting out of here because the Anduin's trying to drown you again._

Cirion had been striding about the room, seizing various of its contents. He shrugged the satchels of maps onto his back, and tossed the pack of copied dispatches to Holgar, ordering, "Don't lose that." Holgar had helped Finn to stand; the mapmaker looked slightly more steady on his feet than Buslai, though I still wouldn't have been surprised to see him fall over at any moment. Cirion raised his voice in command, "Everyone but Finn and Buslai, take some extra weapons with you. We may need them before we get back in here." He shoved a bow and quiver at Holgar and shouldered another of each himself.

Thorolf and I took turns collecting more weapons while the other kept a steadying grip on Buslai. The heavily-laden Holgar started urging Finn into the tunnel that led up into Lord Lilla's burial chamber. I helped myself to a bow and quiver and shoved an extra sword and an axe into my belts, while Svip strapped on a shield that covered his back from shoulders to ankles, making him look like a gigantic turtle. I thought only half in jest that at least he might be able to use the shield as a boat if the water caught up with us.

That might happen a lot sooner than I cared to admit. Nearly the entire floor was awash by now, though the water was still only an inch or two deep. I was not sure if I was imagining it, or if the stone blocking the main passageway was moving.

Finn and Holgar had vanished into the other passage, and Thorolf was herding Buslai in after them. From the main doorway there came a tortured groaning noise of rock scraping upon rock, and a distant rush of water.

"Get moving!" yelled Cirion. "Go!"

Cirion, Svip and I barrelled into the tunnel nearly on top of each other, on the heels of Thorolf and Buslai. Together the three of us heaved into place the stones that blocked this entrance. As we did so, we saw the stone at the far side of the chamber shift and fall.

A wall of brown, muddy water churned through the opening, hurling furniture and equipment out of its path. We slammed the last rock home, shutting off the sight. Immediately the first vanguards of the River began to trickle in on us, through the cracks around the rocks.

"That won't hold long," Cirion observed grimly. He turned and scowled at our four comrades, all standing and staring through the dim, torch-illumined corridor. "All right, then," Cirion growled at them, "nobody told you to stop moving."

Cirion seized the lit torch that he'd left in one of the sconces on the passage wall. We set out at something close to a run, though the two recently drowned men would be hard-pressed to keep up this pace for long. I sympathised with them; goodness knew I wouldn't have been able to walk, let alone run, a few minutes after Svip had brought me back. But behind us was the sound of water seeping over stone, and we could not wait.

The tunnel bore steeply upward. In many places it was too short for me to stand upright, and I was not surprised to hear sounds in front of me indicating that Buslai kept bumping his head.

I wondered if we would hear anything different, any warning, before the water broke through. Or if we would know nothing until it rushed over us.

As I hurried upward through the near dark, Svip's footfalls slapping along behind and the stumbling steps of our comrades sounding ahead, I thought, _I am getting so tired of this_.

I had been starting to hope, as things settled into a daily routine with Svip, that the more dramatic segments of my voyage might finally be over. Perhaps now that I was no longer travelling with the Fellowship, I might be able to look forward to a nice, calm, uneventful journey, without daily visits from cave trolls and avalanches and Balrogs.

I should have known better.

_When all of this is over_, I told myself, _when we've booted Sauron out of Middle Earth once and for all, I'm going to retire and become a Hobbit. I'll move to the Shire and buy some cosy unoccupied hole, and spend the rest of my days with no more pressing concerns than tending my garden and ensuring that I get at least eight meals a day_.

Behind me, Svip yelled, "Here it comes!"

Now we did run, recently dead men and all. I scooped up Svip and carried him under one arm, his turtle-shell shield bumping against my back and arm as I ran. I could not tell how close we might be to the tunnel's end, for the chamber ahead must be equally as dim and murky as the tunnel.

Suddenly I realised that our running comrades were no longer right in front of me. At that moment a jet of water hit my back like a battering ram.

I twisted around and just managed not to fall on Svip. The two of us floundered on the chamber floor, and only as the water slowed did I comprehend that Cirion and Thorolf were mounding up rocks in the passage opening, blocking off the spurting water.

The water kept spitting the smaller rocks away from the door. There was no engineered rock door here such as had been installed throughout the rest of the refuge, and the Rangers were yanking stones away from the lining of the chamber wall. I scrambled to help them.

At last the door seemed successfully plugged. Yet even now, just as at the last door, water was oozing over the rocks, as if mocking our attempts to escape it.

"Get more torches lit," Cirion ordered. Thorolf, getting to his feet and squeezing a little of the water out of his clothes, collected two more torches from the walls and lit them from the one that Cirion must have thrust into the hands of young Holgar when he leapt to plug up the door.

We looked about us. The burial chamber of Lilla Howe curved up around us in a great dome, vanishing into the shadows. It was perhaps twenty feet across and thirty feet to the top of the dome, though much of my knowledge of that came from previous times I had visited the Howe. The dark openings of the smaller burial rooms, all around the chamber's perimeter, gaped at us like so many mouths.

One might have expected to see Lord Lilla's ghost step out of the shadow, demanding to know why we had intruded into his realm. But I'd never heard any reports of ghosts objecting to our use of the Howe, despite the traditional initiation ritual of telling the youngest soldiers terrifying stories about haunted barrows and then daring them to spend a night in the burial chamber.

Perhaps the Lord Lilla approved of our presence here, and was pleased that his barrow played a role in Gondor's defences. If so, I wished he would show his approval by somehow stopping this flood.

In a frightened whisper, Svip voiced the obvious question, "How do we get out?"

"The outer door's blocked up," Cirion said. "Everyone get moving and look for it. Look for some different pattern or colour in the rocks."

I took one of the torches that Thorolf held, then crossed over to where Finn and Buslai stood near the center of the chamber. "Why don't you two sit down and get a little rest," I told them.

"If I sit down I'm not sure I'll get up again," Finn said with a shaky smile. Nonetheless both he and Buslai sat, Holgar and I helping to ease them to the ground. Then Holgar, Thorolf and I, holding the three torches, started circling the perimeter, with Svip scuttling back and forth between us. Cirion remained beside the blocked tunnel, watching for the water to break through.

I tried desperately to remember previous explorations, and recall if I'd ever noticed what the entrance to the Howe looked like from the inside. I had no idea, but Cirion was right, there ought to be some noticeable difference from the paving stones used to support the dome's interior, since presumably the work had been done at different times.

If we did not find the entrance fast, this tale was going to have a very wet and pathetic ending. None of us would get away to tell of it; none of our families would know that we had drowned here inside this tomb. I wondered how much water the River was willing to send after us, but I had little doubt that it would be enough to fill up the Howe. I saw a grim image of all of us splashing about helplessly as the water bore us upward to the roof of the Howe. Not even Svip would make it through this, not unless he managed to swim all the way back to the refuge's entrance. He might be a creature of the water, but he still needed air, just like a beaver or an otter did.

Where was that bloody entranceway?

Holgar yelled, "Here!" then added, "I think."

Thorolf and I converged on him, with Svip at my heels. The wavering torchlight showed an area of smaller stones, in a more haphazard, jumbled distribution. There was a roughly circular frame of paving slabs around these jumbled stones, suggesting a tunnel of approximately three feet both in height and in width.

"Hold this," I said, thrusting the torch at Svip. Thorolf and Holgar jammed their torches into upright positions in the earthen floor, and we started desperately digging. I was using the axe as a pick, and Thorolf used the hilt of his sword, while Holgar, trying to avoid being hit by the rocks we were loosening, kept shoving the rocks out of the way behind us.

Unless the Lord Lilla's corpse had been taken into the afterlife along with all of his funeral goods, someone had re-sealed the entrance tunnel after the time of his burial. I did not imagine that grave robbers would take the trouble to seal up the entrance after their visit, but someone had done so. Perhaps the builders of the watchtower on the Howe had done it, or our men who built the refuge beneath, as a gesture of respect to the dead. At this moment, I wished that they had been a damned sight less respectful.

Scattered amid the rocks were scraps of pottery and the occasional animal bone, including half of a horse's skull. I did not know if Svip felt any real affinity for horses and if the sight of the skull would bother him, but I rapidly set it aside and made sure it soon got buried under rocks again, just in case.

When we had cleared enough of the tunnel that one of us had to crawl inside to reach the rocks, I took the first turn at it. I wormed into the tunnel and spent a few minutes hacking, prying, digging, and shoving the rocks back toward my comrades.

"I'll take a turn," Thorolf called to me. While I was crawling out of the tunnel again, Cirion suddenly yelled, "Help me keep this blocked!"

I scrambled to my feet and raced across the chamber. As I passed them, Finn and Buslai were struggling up as well. Water spurted out between the rocks like blood from a severed artery, while Cirion fought desperately to hold the rocks in place. I grabbed one large stone that had popped loose and jammed it back, then planted myself against the rocks, at Cirion's side. Buslai and Finn soon joined us, and it occurred to me that if we were the heroes in some tale, our bodies alone should be enough to hold back the water. Of course, in the tale, the heroes would survive, whereas here, if the River were angry enough, the escaping water would likely have force enough to kill us.

Across the chamber, Thorolf had plunged into the tunnel while Holgar and Svip still laboured to move aside the rocks that he was clearing.

"It can see us, can't It," Buslai grated. "It's doing this because we look funny, scurrying about like rats."

"Well, good, then," Finn muttered back. "Maybe It'll keep us alive; we won't be so funny when we're dead."

I thought that Buslai was probably right. The River was enjoying itself. It was holding back Its waters now to torment us, and would set them loose again just when the tunnel was open and all of us were racing toward it.

Unfortunately, Its enjoyment did not mean that It was any less furious. It would get all the fun out of us that It could, but at the end of this we would be just as dead.

A shout from Holgar sounded across the chamber, "It's clear!"

Cirion yelled back, "Go on, we'll follow." He continued in a lower tone, "Finn, Buslai. You go; Lord Boromir and I will hold this until you're clear."

Buslai cast a questioning look at me, and I nodded. "Go." I noticed that water was once more starting to jet between the rocks at my side.

The unhappy-looking Buslai and Finn started across the chamber. By the other tunnel's entrance, Svip was holding back. He had taken up one of the torches again, and in its dim light I could see him looking toward us.

"Svip, go!" I yelled. "I'll follow you."

"You promise?"

"Yes! I promise."

He waited until Finn and Buslai were inside the tunnel, then when they had disappeared, Svip finally crawled in after them.

Cirion eyed me grimly. "Well, My Lord?" he inquired. "Do we need to argue over which of us goes last?"

"No," I said. "We'll go at the same time." The River, I was sure, could loose its rage at us whenever it chose, whether there was one of us blocking the door or two.

For another moment Cirion frowned at me, then he sighed. "Right. Give them a little time to get through first."

"Right."

At first we waited without speaking. Then Cirion ventured, "My Lord. What your comrade did to them – bringing them back. He did that to you, as well. Did he not?"

I gazed across the chamber at the dark passageway. "Yes. He did." When I turned my head to look at Cirion, I could not quite read his expression. There seemed his usual grimness, and perhaps a trace of fear. But it seemed there might also be relief.

"They're probably clear by now, My Lord," he said.

"Right. When I count three?"

He nodded. I counted. On "three," both of us launched ourselves from the door.

An explosion roared out behind us. The water ploughed into us, knocking me off my feet. It tumbled me into one of the side burial chambers. I seized hold of the lintel, fighting to drag myself back into the main chamber. Gasping and spluttering through the water, I glimpsed a sight that would have made me laugh if I hadn't had a miniature tidal wave aimed at my face. The water caught Cirion Son of Angantyr, lifted him off his feet, and propelled him head first into the tunnel. As I saw the Ranger Captain vanish, I wished I could be outside of the Howe to witness him popping out the other end.

Someday, perhaps, I would look back upon this and laugh, but that did not change the fact that just now, the River was trying to kill me.

I heaved myself into the main room and ran to the entrance tunnel through the bombardment of the flood, though the River now seemed to be picking up rocks and flinging them at me, along with the continuing rush of water.

I threw myself into the tunnel and crawled. Daylight gleamed impossibly bright ahead of me. I had nearly reached the light before I realised that at some point during my crawl, the flood must simply have stopped. Water still streamed along the tunnel's floor, but the massive waves had vanished, as though the River had tired of Its game and decided to take Its toys and go home.

As I dragged my body through the entrance, four pairs of hands took hold of me and helped to heave me through. I found myself staggering to my feet upon a hillside mantled in spring, its soft grey-green grasses sparkling with the white stars of countless wildflowers. Around me stood Cirion, Thorolf, Holgar and Svip, and beyond them a bit further up the slope I saw Finn and Buslai, seated on the hill and both looking as though they might be about to be sick. The ground beneath our feet was a mess of liquid mud, water still trickling down the hillside from out of the barrow's front door.

Svip stared up at me as if he expected me to vanish at any moment. I tried to conjure an encouraging grin. "There, you see," I told him. "I told you I'd follow."

Holgar asked tentatively, "Do you think it's over, sir?"

I began, "I don't know."

Then a distant, growling roar rose through the gentle spring air. It rumbled up about us, and I groaned. "No. It isn't over."

For a moment we all looked around helplessly, seeking the source of the noise. Finn and Buslai saw it first. Buslai moaned, "Oh, bloody hell," and Finn leaped up unsteadily, shouting, "Get higher up! Climb up the Howe, now!"

It was a tribute, I suppose, both to our military discipline and to the desperateness of the situation, that we made neither question nor complaint before starting to scramble up the slope. I grabbed up Svip and swung him over my head, depositing him as far up the hillside as I could reach. Both Holgar and Thorolf made their way over to Finn and Buslai, and lent their aid to the other two as they began to climb. The ground above us was at least not muddy, and afforded better purchase for our boots than did the sodden earth below.

As we scrabbled up the barrow's side, I caught sight of the peril that Finn and Buslai had seen. And despite all that had happened already, I could scarce bring myself to believe it.

The River Anduin had left its banks. It was impossible, yet somehow the River had chosen a new course. Like some vast serpent it reared upward and sent its silvery waters slithering toward us. At the base of the Howe the serpent split into two, wreathing about and turning the barrow into an island.

And the waters began to rise.

Gondor's people have always held that the Anduin is a deity of great power. I could have done without this proof that our beliefs were right.

One by one we reached the top of Lilla Howe – and the point where we had nowhere to run.

I stood staring down at the churning water, debating within myself what options we had left to us.

Running was no longer a choice. When the water rose high enough, we were going to have to swim for it. But swim for what? What safety could we hope to reach, when the River could apparently follow wherever we went?

Normally I would have assumed that Svip and I, at least, would have no difficulty swimming anywhere we chose. And I assumed that the others had at least minimal swimming abilities; they would never have made it into the Rangers if they did not. But even if every last one of us could swim like fish, would that help us when we were in a River that seemed set upon our deaths?

Three feet below the barrow's summit, the waters stopped.

They crept no further up the hillside, and I wondered again if the River had reached some limit It could not surmount, or if It were simply doing this to prolong the game.

The new, impossible watercourse spread out to cover an area perhaps forty feet around us in every direction. And then it simply stopped, as if there was higher ground at that point to hold it in place. But there was not. The ground was far below the water level, yet that did not seem to cause any difficulty for the River. I wondered what this scene looked like from the other side of those waters. Frankly, I was glad that I could not see it. The thought that the water must just be standing there, towering above the land as if held in check by some invisible wall, made me want to be sick.

The waters rose no higher around us, but they did not rest.

The muddy, white-capped torrent encircled us, like a troop of huntsmen galloping about their prey. Cold spray filled the air. Waves as tall as Men leapt from the water's surface and broke upon us.

We huddled together at the centre of the tiny island, crouched amid wet grass and wildflowers.

_So here we are_, I thought. _So what are we going to do_?

I could hear someone's teeth chattering. Buslai's, probably; the young Ranger looked so pale and ill that I would not have been surprised were he just to up and die on us. Finn did not look much better. Svip, with his oversized shield on his back, looked more like a turtle than ever, sitting hunched forward with his shield in the air and staring miserably at the ground. Holgar, Thorolf and Cirion all looked as if they expected me to find a way out of this. I thought that I had better bestir myself and come up with something fast.

Another wave lashed at us. And suddenly Svip yelled in terror.

I lunged for him. The wave had somehow caught his shield and was dragging him off our island. I seized one of his ankles just before he could be swept away, and for some moments he bobbed there, caught in a tug-of-war between me and the River.

I heard something break. It must have been one of the straps of Svip's shield, for an instant later the shield went spiralling away, lurching about on the waves like a tempest-tossed ship. Something else, some smaller, greyish lump that at first I could not identify, went floating off after it, bounding madly through the waves.

"No!" shrieked Svip. He tried to dive into the water after whatever it was, but I yanked him back, clutching him to me and shouting, "What are you doing?"

"My pack!" Svip sobbed out. "My pack! I have to get it!"

"No, you don't! It isn't worth it!"

"But – " He stared up at me, his eyes wild with grief and guilt. "But the Horn is in it," he whispered. "Your Horn."

Cold lanced through me, colder than the chill of the spray and the waves. For one moment, I wanted to dive into the water after it myself. But I forced myself to say, "It's all right, Svip. It doesn't matter."

He whispered, "But I know it's important to you."

I shrugged and tried to look calm. "Your things are important to you, too. They're not worth risking your life for them. The Horn isn't, either."

Svip and I knelt there, watching the waves.

It figured, I thought. It was just like me, that of all the Steward's Heirs over all the centuries, I should be the one to not only break the Horn of Gondor, but to lose it. When I came home without the Horn, my father was going to skin me alive.

"It doesn't matter," I repeated, more to myself than to Svip.

I could feel my soul bleeding at the Horn's loss. But there was no escaping the fact that losing Svip would have been worse.

"My Lord," said Cirion Son of Angantyr. I turned to face him.

He said, as calmly as if a wave had not been breaking in his face as he spoke, "Perhaps you and your comrade would care to explain to us what is happening? And what we can do to stop it?"

I studied the faces of my fellow Men as they awaited my answer.

Buslai made me think of a half-drowned puppy: drenched, shivering and wretchedly weak, yet still gazing at me with an expression of trust. Finn looked appalling as well, as if he were hanging on to life by sheer force of will, yet he, too, seemed to be watching me with total faith that I would come up with an answer to save all of us. That trust was visible on Holgar's face as well, while Thorolf showed merely the soldier's look of stolid suffering.

Captain Cirion eyed me as if I were an unblooded novice that he expected to go to pieces at any moment. I had passed one test, perhaps, when I admitted to him that Svip had brought me back to life. But he was not going to be surprised if I failed the next challenges.

I knew that I had better tell the others the whole story – or a short version of it, anyhow – if I did not want Cirion to be disappointed in me. And I owed them the truth, after what we had been through together – and what my reckless idiocy was putting them through.

I glanced over at Svip, who sat huddled in on himself, looking as if he wanted to sink through the earth. It did not seem that he would object if I spoke for both of us.

I said, "Svip knows an ancient remedy that was used for healing wounds. It can also revive the dead." The next words I spoke directly to Buslai and Finn. "He has used it twice. Once on the two of you, today. And once, nine days or so ago, on me."

Finn shuddered and stared down at the ground. Buslai kept his eyes fixed on me, as if seeking confirmation that one could be resurrected as we had been and live to tell about it. I saw young Holgar reach out to Finn and grip the other Man's shoulder. Holgar's face bore one of his wide-eyed stares, but I could not tell whether the stare was of awe or of fear. I could not read any expression on Thorolf's face or on Cirion's, only the impassive patience of old soldiers awaiting the next development.

I did not want to tell them this next part, but I went on. "When Svip first explained it to me, he told me that there were some dead whom he is not allowed to revive. He said that he cannot bring back those who have drowned. Those, the River keeps for Itself, and It will punish any attempt to take them back." I said, wondering if the River was listening and if I could make any impact on It, if It was, "Svip argued against angering the River. The blame for what is happening now is mine. I begged him to use his skills, and he did it only on my urging. The responsibility is mine alone."

I half expected a wave to reach out and pluck me away to another watery grave. But the response to my words came from Finn Son of Thorstein, instead.

"Well, that's it, then," he said quietly. "All we have to do is give ourselves back to the River, and all of this will stop."

Buslai looked at him, then nodded. "Yes. Looks like that's it."

_Damn it_, I thought. _I was afraid they were going to say that_.

I said, "No. I forbid it. We have not gone through all of this just to give you back. By your oath of service to Gondor, I charge you not to sacrifice yourselves in this. No men of Gondor will feed the River today; we will find another way."

_Well and good_, my mind answered treacherously, _so what other way are you going to find_?

Cirion spoke up, "Does the River only have a taste for Men? Or would other victims do in exchange? Orcs, for example?"

I thought about that. "I don't know. Svip?"

Svip looked up at us, frowning. "I'm not sure," he said. "But I think it ought to work. It's more the numbers It cares about, I think. Not so much the type of victim. Maybe."

"Right," said Cirion. "I'll go get us a couple of Orcs and we can drown them."

Finn muttered, "Too bad we didn't keep some of the ones we had earlier."

I stood up. "Cirion and I will go," I decided. "The rest of you, wait for our return. Your orders are simple: do whatever it takes to keep all of you alive."

Cirion stood, grimacing as another tall wave spat into his face. "Very well, My Lord. Any ideas of how we get through this, without the River taking us in exchange?"

I shrugged, then turned from my comrades to face out toward the water. I had not the faintest idea if this would work, but I supposed it was worth a try.

"Anduin!" I called out. "Great River! Boromir, Son and Heir to the Lord Steward of Gondor, greets you!"

It might have been my imagination, but I thought that the waves grew shorter, ever so slightly.

"My people have long honoured you," I continued. "You are the lifeblood of our realm. Today I ask that you hear me. I humbly beg pardon for angering you, and I ask that you give me the chance to make amends. Hold off your wrath. Do not harm my comrades, and give leave for me and one other to pass through your waters in safety. We will fetch other victims for you, in exchange for those that we have taken. If our gift pleases you, then we will respectfully request your leave to continue our journey."

I don't know what sort of answer I expected. Probably some booming voice speaking out of the deep. When no such reply was forthcoming, I looked over at Cirion and gave another shrug.

"What do you think?" I asked. "Shall we give it a try?"

He smiled grimly. "Let's."

Buslai managed to unsteadily heave himself to his feet, I think to the distress of all the rest of us. We were likely all imagining that he would immediately topple over again. Finn stared at Buslai in shock and then leapt up as well, wavering a bit as the rest of us waited poised to catch either or both of them when they fell.

"You shouldn't risk it, sir," Buslai insisted stubbornly. "If you'll only let us – "

"No," I told him, in a tone that I hoped held both firmness and sympathy. "You have received your orders." I gripped his shoulder, adding, "And I will give you another order: sit back down again, please, before you fall over."

Holgar and Thorolf hastened to help our recently deceased comrades seat themselves once more. Cirion, meanwhile, had crouched down and was rummaging in his pack. "We'll want rope," he commented, "if we're to bring our Orcs living to the River."

Svip tugged at my sleeve. "Let me go with you," he said. "If I change shape, I can help carry the Orcs."

I closed my hand around his. "No. I need you here, Svip. Keep an eye on this lot for me. Someone has to make sure they don't go drowning themselves. I need you to keep them alive for me until I get I back."

Svip gazed hard at me, then he took his hand from mine. "All right," he said. "I will."

Cirion had stood again, a sturdy length of rope coiled and fastened at his belt. "Shall we, My Lord?" he inquired.

I nodded, eyeing the churning water. "Aye," I said. Cirion and I glanced at each other, probably both wondering exactly why we had thought this a good idea. "We'll make for those trees," I told him, pointing out a line of trees visible on a ridge just north of us beyond the impossible plateau of water. That ridge was probably the closest point that we could reach, and should require the shortest amount of swimming time to attain it. Not that that was likely to matter, I admitted to myself. If the River were decided upon our doom, it would need only seconds to seal our fate.

"Aye," Cirion agreed. "Whichever of us reaches the trees second, owes the other a drink in Minas Tirith."

"Done," I said.

There was nothing to be gained by waiting longer, little though I relished the prospect at hand. With a deep breath and an attempt to mentally resign myself to the likelihood of dying again, I dove into the waves.

My body sliced into the murky water, and it seemed as though the waves suddenly stilled around me. As I swam, Cirion slightly behind and to the right, I marvelled at the sensation that the water about me had become as calm and untroubled as that in the Fountain in its Courtyard, beneath the limbs of the White Tree. For a few feet in every direction around me, my own motion was all that disturbed the water. Yet just beyond, where Cirion swam, the waves still churned and tore at him, threatening to drag him under.

I heard a yell, and turned my head to see one of the waves catch Cirion, tossing him backward almost as far as the island. Then it reversed direction, pulling him away from the island again and sucking his body underneath the water.

I struck out toward him, and the stretch of calm water moved with me. As the smooth water surface spread over the spot where Cirion had vanished, the Ranger's head suddenly popped up above the water once more.

I reached out and grabbed hold of him, holding him above the surface with one of his arms over my shoulders and my right arm under both of his. At the corner of my vision I could see the others, crowded at the near edge of our island. They were too far away to have done anything to help, unless they dove into the water after us. A quick head count told me, to my relief, that none of them had done so.

Cirion spluttered, looking disgruntled at needing to be rescued. Then his eyes widened as he noticed the calm patch of water that had spread to encircle us. He managed, "What – "

"I may have a safe conduct," I told him. "Keep hold of me; we'll see if it covers both of us."

I waited while Cirion got a grip around my sword belt, then I started to swim, Cirion clinging to me and doggedly swimming using his one free arm. Again the smooth water moved with us, but the waves kept pace on every side, like a mob that nipped at our heels but did not quite dare move close enough to attack.

I wondered what would happen, when we reached the water's edge.

The water simply ended, as in the sailors' yarns about ships that ventured too far and sailed off the edge of the world.

Could we dive down to the bottom of this plateau, and reach the land by dragging ourselves out through the bottom? Or would we just have to leap off the top – and probably break our legs, when we landed?

I slowed our forward progress and brought us to a stop.

The water cut off just ahead of us, its break clear and sharp like the edge of cliff. I stared at it, and had to swallow back an exclamation of fear.

My left hand, closer to the edge, was underwater. But if I reached it forward, it would cleave through the water and pass into mid-air.

We hung there treading water. The land must be seventy feet below, if it was an inch.

I thought of the time when I was thirteen or so, when some friends and I had dared each other to climb down all the levels of Minas Tirith using neither gates nor roads. I made it down the walls from the seventh level to the fourth, which was more than any of my friends managed, and I always maintained that I could have made it all the way down if my friends hadn't told on me. But it _had_ been something of a relief, when I was scrambling down the third wall, to find the Officer of the Day waiting beneath to drag me home by my ear.

It looked as though we should be able to climb down this wall, just like the walls of Minas Tirith. Only this wall was water instead of stone.

"Right," I said. "We'll dive for it. Ready?"

"Yes."

_He may be ready_, my mind grumbled sourly, _but I'm bloody well not_.

We dove.

As we ploughed into the murky depths, I thought that I heard some strange voice, part whispering and part singing. It did not seem like the usual dull ringing in the ears that one always hears underwater. It seemed that if I really strained to hear, I would be able to catch the words. But if words there were, they danced just at the edge of my hearing.

The thought came to me that perhaps it was the voice of the River. If it was, I wondered if the River expected me to hear and understand – and if It would be angered at me, when I did not.

What did the River think of all of this, I wondered. Was Its main motivation outrage over Its stolen victims? Was It more interested, now, in the amusement It could get out of us? Would It be moved to spare us, if we _did_ pull this off and bring It a different sacrifice? Or would It just swallow up all of us, anyway?

As we cleaved downward, I wondered, too, what the River thought of me.

Its water and mud had been used in the spell that brought me back, or so Svip had told me. Did It know that? And did that make It think of me as – what? One of Its creatures? A sort of client, as if the River were some High King and I a lesser ruler who reigned at Its behest? Did It recognise my status in the realms of Men, and if It did, did that status matter to It in the slightest?

My hands touched trailing tendrils of grass, drowned in the flood. I felt along farther, and found fairly level ground stretching out beneath us. It seemed we had reached the base of the plateau. Now we had only to head for the light that gleamed beyond the wall, and see if the River would allow us to break free.

We swam toward the edge – and the River changed Its tactics. Of a sudden, instead of holding back in that impossible wall, the water around us surged forward, hurling us along with it. In an instant we were spat out, flailing on the ground with water spewing over us.

We might not have chosen that method of egress, but at least we had reached the ridge of trees for which we'd been aiming. I fetched up on the protruding root of one, my momentum stopping an inch or two short of whacking my head into the tree trunk.

Water trickled in rivulets down the ridge about us. But when I forced myself to turn and look back, the water wall still stood, seemingly unaltered by having spewed us forth. I struggled to my feet, staring up at the wall with a feeling of wonder and dread.

It stood like a tower of rippled green glass. I thought of the Rauros Falls as I gazed at it. But this was no waterfall, for the simple reason that the water was not falling. There was no spray at its base, no rush of current dragging the water onward to fling itself over the cliff. It just stood as though frozen, yet I could see waves splashing at the top of the plateau, and, I thought, inside of it as well.

"Right," muttered Cirion, getting to his feet beside me. "That was fun."

I nodded and started my soggy way along the ridge. I wanted to see if I could catch a glimpse of our friends atop the Howe, to assure myself that they were still there.

Twenty paces or so took me to a point where I could see our little island refuge poking up out of the water. I saw the tiny figures grouped on it as well, appearing like toy soldiers in the distance.

I could not at first tell how many there were; some were seated and impossible to distinguish from each other. I waved at them, and Cirion, walking up to join me, did the same. One by one I saw the seated figures leap to their feet.

At last I could distinguish five of them: four more or less of a height, and one about half the height of the others. The smaller figure jumped up and down excitedly and waved.

That was all right, then. For now, at least, the River seemed to be abiding by the terms I had proposed. At least, It had not drowned our companions.

I turned to Cirion. "So," I asked, "any notion of how we swiftly find a few Orcs?"

He said, "If we head along this ridge and then cut west along one of the gullies, we'll come to an area where we observed several bands of Orcs yesterday. It seems to be an established meeting point for them; there were signs of fairly lengthy habitation. It's likely, I believe, that any of their groups in the area would routinely stop there, just as any of our Men would stop at Lilla Howe. Even if none are there when we reach the place, we should not have to wait long for some to arrive."

"Maybe," I said. "Assuming that all the bands moving through this area have not already done so." But it did seem a better plan than just wandering around aimlessly hoping to run into some Orcs.

"We'll try it," I decreed. "Perhaps we'll meet some on the way there, and save ourselves the wait."

We paused briefly to adjust our clothing and our arsenals, after the disarrangement caused by our journey through the flood. Then we set out, Cirion in the lead. We moved at a steady lope, keeping under the camouflage of the trees wherever possible. It was probably sheer habit for the Ranger to travel as inconspicuously as he could, though I wondered if in this case we might be better served by sticking out like a troll at a tea party. If we made ourselves conspicuous, at least it might bring the Orcs to us faster. Though since we could not pick and choose the number that might see us, perhaps discretion was wiser, after all. It would not really aid our cause, if we succeeded in bringing hundreds of them down upon us.

As we reached the gully that Cirion advocated following, he halted and knelt down, studying a mass of footprints. The ground had been churned up all along the bottom of the gully, with the footprints heading off toward the riverbank. They were Orc prints; that much was plain enough from the size of them and the unmistakable imprint of their iron-nailed shoes. But how many there had been was impossible to tell, from the way the prints were trampled over each other.

"From this morning," Cirion decided, as he ran his hand over one of the prints and examined a chunk of mud. "No more than five hours old, I would venture."

I frowned. "If we cannot tell more precisely than that, I assume there's no sense in following them? We've no guarantee we'd catch up with them – and no guarantee of how many there'd be, if we did catch up."

Cirion stood. "Not even reckoning," he added, "that these may be the same Orcs we killed this morning."

We set out once more, scaling to the top of the ridge along the gully's southern edge. Should we encounter Orcs along the way, at least we'd be able to hopefully see them first and fire down into the gully upon them.

Our plan was sensible enough. But I could not stop myself from mentally grumbling about it. It still seemed there ought to be some better way to go about this, some way of guaranteeing that we'd find some Orcs, instead of just sitting about on our backsides waiting for them to turn up. We'd no idea how long it might be before more Orcs decided to visit this meeting place of Cirion's. How did we know how long the River would be willing to wait, before it got bored and decided to eat our comrades?

_Typical_, I thought. _When you don't want Orcs around, they're ten a penny. And then when you _do_ want to find some_ …

I thought back to Finn's grim joke, that we should have kept some of the ones we had this morning. It was too bad, I thought, that we weren't in the habit of carting a few prisoners around with us on a regular basis, just in case we might need them to sacrifice.

I wondered if perhaps our ancient ancestors had done so, in those supposed bad old days when sacrifices, and all of a Lord's followers immolating themselves on his funeral pyre, and suchlike uncouth acts, were a matter of course. Though if they had, I thought I could see why they'd given it up, since the gods and such beings are notoriously unreliable and might be just as likely to betray you to your death if you _did_ sacrifice to them, as if you did not. Certainly that was the way Svip spoke of the River. He'd said time and again that you could never tell what It might do. So if regular sacrifices had failed to make the gods any more reliable, it was no wonder if somewhere in the mists of time our ancestors had just decided to stop bothering with it.

Near to an hour since we'd been spat out of the water, we reached Cirion's Orc meeting place. True to my fears, no Orcs were currently in residence.

I had to bite my lip to keep from yelling out my frustration. We hunkered down in a nest of scraggly bushes growing over a gap amid an outcrop of boulders. From that gap, the bushes shielding us from sight, we had a clear view of the rendezvous point.

Below us was a large hollow, a clearing surrounded by hills on every side. The only easy outlets were the two points where the gully entered it on the western edge of the clearing and emerged again on the east. The hills were steep enough that the Orcs likely presumed any attackers would tumble downhill and announce their presence. Though that would not, of course, provide defence against attack by archers.

As Cirion had said, this place had seen plenty of use. The remains of countless campfires darkened the ground, and I saw a few rough lean-tos fashioned of uprooted young trees and battered bits of canvas. There were some dark openings as well, cave mouths at the base of the hills. Several of them had piles of dirt scattered about their entrances, and I supposed that the Orcs had recently dug these caves, to provide better shelter against the sun.

That was one worrying consideration, among the many, about these latest patterns of enemy movements. Cirion, Thorolf and I had spoken of it last night, and it did not look any less grim after our discussion. We had all seen more evidence than we cared to, that a new breed of Orc was about. Too many of the creatures we'd observed over this past year or so seemed undisturbed by sunlight. There had been many of them, I was certain, in the battle at Osgiliath last summer. Cirion's party had seen some of them in these last few days, and he'd reported that the messenger from Rohan had spoken of such creatures as well. At least one of the groups that Svip and I had trailed for all those days, the band that came out of the West, had also seemed made up of these hardier Orcs.

And, I supposed, so had the Orcs we met at Amon Hen. The Orcs who had killed me.

It was no great stretch of the imagination to hypothesise that they were some new creation of our Enemy. The Orcs' loathing of sunlight had been an advantage to our side for centuries. It should be no surprise to us if the Dark Lord had determined to take that advantage from us.

This would not be the first time we'd faced enemies who had no fear of daylight. The Nameless One had plenty of Men under his sway, Southrons who were no more daunted by the sun's rays than we were.

But it was yet one more weapon in the armoury that our Foe was building up against us. Orcs that could fight in the sunlight, Men lured by the promise of plunder – and the grim warriors of shadow whose very approach spread terror. I could not help fearing that this time the Enemy would fling at us more than we could withstand.

_Aye_, I snapped at myself, _and that fear is another of his weapons. Stop playing into his hands_.

The morning died and the afternoon wore on. Over and over the image played before my eyes of the River losing its patience and rising up to devour our friends. It was a good thing that I had my gauntlets on, or I would have been gnawing my fingernails into non-existence.

I wondered how long we could afford to wait, before attempting to follow another course. How long did it have to be, with no Orcs strolling into the hollow, before we decided that none of them were coming?

And if we did come to that decision, what would we do then? What other likely tactic did we have? We could cross the River and head east; there was generally no shortage of Orcs on the Eastern shore. But would the Anduin give us time enough to find them?

At last a more mundane consideration came to distract me from my dread. My stomach reminded me I'd not eaten since early morning.

It was a trivial concern, I told myself with scorn; I had not turned into a Hobbit yet. But the hunger was at least an irritation on which I could focus for a while – and thus stop from driving myself mad over the fate of our comrades, and of Gondor.

For the first time, I thought I was sorry to have no more of that blasted _lembas_ the Elves had given us.

The portion of it I'd had was lost to me with my pack and the rest of its contents. I had not missed it until now, not even when subsisting on Svip's fishy diet.

I'd become deathly tired of it in those weeks after leaving Lórien, though of course I had to admit that it was a good subsistence food, easily portable, and would be a useful addition to the provisions of our armies. I'd even considered that perhaps we should enter into trade negotiations with the Elves to see if they'd supply the stuff for us, or sell us the recipe – unlikely, considering the way Elves guard their secrets – or even send us Elven cooks who would make it for us. I didn't reckon we'd get all that far with such negotiations; it'd be a cold day in Mordor before Elves looked kindly on trade relations with mere Men. But perhaps there was something they wanted that we could offer in exchange. Although I couldn't imagine what. A fleet, perhaps, so they could get their poetical Elven rears out of Middle Earth the sooner? Though I supposed that went against Elven nature. Why do anything swiftly, when one could spend millennia on it instead?

If I did manage to introduce _lembas _to our armies, I was under no illusion that our Men would bless me for it. It is, after all, the time-honoured right of all soldiers to dislike the rations supplied to them. Likely it'd come to be known as "Boromir's bread," and would be so known for generations, long after anyone remembered who I was. I grinned to myself as I thought of it, and of all the soldiers' tales that were sure to grow up around the stuff. I wondered how many incidents there'd be of Men whose lives were miraculously saved by wafers of _lembas_ in their pockets that turned aside arrowpoints. Too bad I hadn't had any on me at Amon Hen. It might have helped me out against those Orcish arrows.

Out of the gathering shadows of the waning afternoon light, harsh voices approached from the West. As we watched, a ragged column of dark, bulky shapes marched into the hollow.

"Got 'em," Cirion whispered.

I counted fifteen of them entering the clearing before their column stopped. I'd wondered if they would just be passing through and we would have to follow, but it seemed that the Orcs were going to make things easier for us. We watched them start to divest themselves of weapons and packs. The largest of the Orcs, presumably their leader, stood near the centre of the clearing directing the activities of the others. He sent two of them to the clearing's edge, on the quest for firewood. Two others took up position guarding each of the clearing's entrances, while a fifth started scrambling up the hill by the eastern entrance to the gully, sent, I supposed, to stand guard on the ridge. This last Orc's path would probably bring him directly to us.

"We can take them from up here," Cirion hissed. "I'll silence this one, then attempt to get to the other side. If we fire at them from above and keep moving, we should be able to keep them pinned down and make them think they're surrounded. All right?" he added, finally remembering that he was speaking to a very superior officer.

"Right," I said. I wished I could be down there within sword's reach, but Cirion was right; we should keep clear of them and pick off as many as we could without risking ourselves. We owed it to our comrades not to get killed, for our fate would seal theirs as well. "Disable as many as you can," I whispered to him. "Remember we need at least two alive."

"Yes, My Lord. Give me a couple of minutes and start firing."

Cirion crept away through the rocks and I swiftly lost sight of him. But before long I could see the Orc watchman, walking unconcernedly toward my hiding place. Likely he intended to take a seat atop the boulders that I was crouching beneath.

He never reached them. As the Orc moved in among the rocks, I saw Cirion leap up like the strike of a serpent. Before the Orc even glimpsed his danger, Cirion had seized him, slit his throat, and pulled the body down into the shelter of the rocks.

I listened for a shout of alarm from below, but none came. The Ranger Captain had moved fast enough that the Orcs below had missed all of it.

Cirion vanished from my sight again. I presumed he was creeping through the rocks on his way to the other side of the clearing. I readied the bow that I'd taken when we fled our flooding refuge, then I crept out from the gap and wormed along, seeking a vantage point from which to take my first shot.

My route took me past the Orc watchman's corpse. I spared a moment's regret that Cirion had chosen such a permanent method of silencing him. Not that I regretted the Orc himself, but the time might come when we'd wish we had him as a reserve. It is not always a simple matter to wound rather than kill. We did not have the option of failure; we had to keep two of them alive if we were to provide enough victims for the River. Our comrades' lives could not afford the delay of seeking out more victims. We had no choice but to succeed – but I wished I were a more accomplished archer, and more certain that I would not end up killing every Orc that I hit.

The gully became very narrow at the point where it entered the hollow from the East, no more than three feet across. I caught an instant's glimpse of Cirion, as the Ranger jumped over this gap and started his way along the northern rim of the clearing.

I wondered what was wrong with the damned Orcs. They must all be blind or asleep, if they had not seen that. Although, I reminded myself, I had been watching for it and they had not. And they had no reason to expect an attack such as ours. Their lookouts were watching for attack by a larger force of Men – or for some defenceless refugees they could attack and plunder – not for a couple of madmen on a kidnapping mission.

I had lost sight of Cirion again, but I figured I had given him enough time. I sought out the leader of the Orcs, he who I presumed would have the best chance of restoring order among them when we attacked. He was seated on a log near the centre of the clearing, apparently haranguing a smaller Orc that was unloading pots and pans from his pack. Promising myself that I really would try to just disable all of the other ones at which I shot, I aimed at the leader's chest, and fired.

The arrow struck him in the sternum, and as he reared to his feet with an anguished roar, a second arrow blossomed in his back.

_Well, that one's dead_, I thought. Cirion and I had better hope that we didn't keep aiming for the same Orcs throughout all of this, or we would never get any sacrifices for the River.

As shouts erupted from below, I scrambled low to the ground to another nearby clump of rocks. I fired at the watchman on the eastern edge of the clearing. My first shot missed him. Swearing under my breath, I nocked another arrow and took a second shot at him, this time the arrow seemingly grazing his thigh. He fell, but swiftly staggered up again.

Deciding to abandon him as a target for the moment, I made another running crawl to a point near where Cirion and I had hidden. Here I fired at another of the yelling, running Orcs. This one took the arrow somewhere around his midriff, and I snarled another curse to myself, wondering whether he'd survive that wound or not.

I was beginning to wish I could go back in time and come up with a different plan. This business of shooting to disable, not kill, was going to drive me mad. Orcs aren't the type to lie down and groan when they get an arrow in an arm or a leg. A wound that's enough to knock an Orc down might just as well be a fatal one, for little short of death will stop them long enough for one to be able to capture them.

Cirion had kept firing from his side of the clearing. I kept seeing Orcs fall, and some of the fallen were still moving, but I could not pause long enough to study them and make any guess on which were likely to survive and which not.

I scrambled a few feet to my left and fired, then doubled back further to the right and fired again. One of my Orcs fell, again with a wound the severity of which I could not judge. The other arrow missed its target entirely, ploughing into the earth.

A swift count showed five Orcs still left on their feet. One of them, the Orc I had just missed, had either figured out there were only two archers firing, or had determined to charge the enemy regardless of how many we were.

That was fine by me. I would have a better chance of disabling him if I could reach him. This Orc seemed undaunted by the steep slope of the hillside, and he was churning upward at me sword in hand, his feet creating a rooster tail of fallen leaves and rocks.

I wriggled along to a different location, to the left again of where I had last fired. Hopefully my Orc had not actually seen me. He did not seem to have, and kept charging toward the rocks I'd been hiding behind when I shot at him. As he reached those rocks, I jumped him, keeping low in case some other of the Orcs decided to take a pot shot at me.

I barrelled into him, catching him about the waist and knocking him over. We rolled a few feet down the slope, sending rocks, leaves and twigs flying in all directions. For a moment I'd had him pinned, then he heaved me off. I fell onto my back as he surged up at me.

I had drawn the battleaxe that I'd taken from Lilla Howe. As the Orc struck at me I managed to roll out of the way, then hacked at his sword arm while he was off balance from his lunge. My first blow sliced across his forearm and staggered him a little, but the second, before he could recover, lopped off his hand at the wrist. Hand and sword went flying.

The Orc snarled and reached, left-handed, for the dagger at his belt. I reversed my grip on the axe and swung it at his head, the axe handle connecting with his skull with a dull thud.

My Orc crumpled, seemingly out cold. But I'd no way of knowing how long that would last. Knowing the Orcs, he could be up again in seconds.

Before I could make any move to secure him, an arrow zinged past my head and drove into the earth.

I risked a glance at the clearing and saw two more Orcs running across it, toward the hillside and toward me. One hulking monster was waving around some enormous sword that seemed nearly as tall as he was, while the other, only slightly less massive, was clutching a great two-headed battleaxe. A third Orc, the one who had fired at me, was standing near the edge of the clearing, readying another arrow.

I could use my unconscious one-handed Orc as a shield, but that wouldn't do anything for our chances of being able to keep him for a sacrifice. I seized hold of him and managed to drag both myself and him behind the nearest cluster of rocks. The next arrow splintered against a rock.

Huge Sword and Big Axe were storming up the hill. Working as swiftly as I could, I yanked one of my Orc's belts off him and used it to bind together his one remaining hand and the other, severed wrist. As an afterthought I ripped off a couple of feet of cloth from his tunic and wrapped it around his mangled wrist. The River would probably like Its sacrifices better if they weren't in the process of bleeding to death.

My next two Orcs were getting much too near for comfort as I lunged for the bow I'd left lying behind the rocks and nocked an arrow to it.

Big Axe was first, leaping over the rocks with a particularly blood-curdling roar. The roar broke off abruptly as I fired up from where I was crouched on the ground, and the arrow impaled his throat.

Damn, I hoped some of those other Orcs were still alive.

I gained my feet as the one with the massive sword came charging through the rocks and leapt over his prostrate comrade. I drew my sword, but had to jump backward as the Orc swung his enormous blade at me like some giant's scythe. I stared in disbelief at the sheer size of that sword, and thought of the muscles that must be necessary for the Orc to be able to wield the thing without falling over.

The Orc saw me staring, and laughed.

In guttural tones he mocked, in the Common Tongue, "Come here, little Man_."_

_Come here, eh_? I thought. _Fine, but I don't think you'll like it_.

I feinted to his left, then ducked out of the way again as the monstrous sword arced in another huge right-to-left swing. I suppose the Orc was expecting me to just keep jumping away from him. It certainly took him by surprise when I struck, beating his sword further to the left and throwing him off balance. He stumbled, and I lunged under his arm. I was still desperately trying to secure some of these bastards for our sacrifice, so instead of gutting him I slashed my sword across his massive thigh. My attack carried me behind him, and as he wheeled to face me I brought up my sword and smashed the flat of it down across the Orc's head.

He staggered, and I saw a trickle of blood emerge from under his leathern skull-cap helmet. But he kept his feet, and he studied me with an ugly, gap-fanged grin.

"What are you playing at, little Man?" he inquired.

I thought, _You don't want to know_.

No more arrows were flying at me, but I could not risk glancing away from my opponent to see what had become of the archer. I hoped Cirion had finished him off.

I had my back to the hillside. If I managed it properly, perhaps I could lure this fellow into lunging at me and throwing himself down the hill. Though Orcs are not all entirely stupid, and there seemed a fairly good chance that this one would see what I was doing and just laugh at me.

Nonetheless, I started backing away toward the hill's edge, as the vast sword swung at me once, and then again. On the third swing, when I felt the ground beginning to slope down beneath my feet, I ducked away to the side, at the same time slicing my sword across both of the Orc's thighs. He yelled something, partially lost his footing and slid a few feet down the slope.

It wasn't as dramatic a fall as I'd hoped, but it was something. While he was swinging at me, I'd noticed he didn't seem to be wearing any dagger or other small arms. He could, of course, be carrying concealed ones, but if he didn't have any, then I wouldn't be in much danger once I got inside his guard.

I leapt at him, and his feet finally skidded out from under him. He hit the ground hard and slid a little ways further down the leaf-carpeted slope, with me hanging on atop of him as if I were riding some bizarre Orc-shaped sled. I closed my left hand around his windpipe, and with my right I pounded my sword hilt into his skull, again and again.

The Orc had dropped his sword, and was bucking, clawing and kicking to force me off him. As he dragged my hand away from his neck, snarling up at me, my hilt landed with a sickening crunch and the Orc suddenly went limp.

"Bloody hell," I muttered. I felt his wrist for his pulse, which was still there and still strong, then I wrenched the battered leather helmet off his head. There was blood all through his matted black hair, but at one point, over one ear, his skull offered no resistance to my cautiously prodding fingers. The bone must have shattered there, though at least it had apparently not been driven into his brain. I had better be careful not to shove it in now, though I wasn't at all sure he would make it to the River alive, anyway. If we had any other victims from which to choose, perhaps we'd be better advised just to finish this one off and take some less likely to perish along the way.

I looked about me. Two Orcs unconscious and one slain. Down in the clearing, no Orcs were left standing. I could see seven bodies down there, but I couldn't tell if any still lived. Movement drew my eyes to the rim of the hollow, and I saw Cirion jogging along toward me, bow in hand. He jumped the gully again and loped up through the rocks.

"How did you do?" I asked him. "Any alive down there?"

He shrugged. "Should be. We'll have to investigate. Four of them ran away, back the way they came, so we'll just have to hope they don't bring reinforcements. What about these?"

I grimaced. "Got two alive. For now. Don't know if this one'll last long enough to be worth it."

Cirion crouched down and took his turn at carefully prodding the Orc's skull. "He might do," he said. "We should try, anyway. He's big enough; maybe the River will take him in exchange for Buslai."

I got to my feet, sheathing my sword and brushing the leaves and dirt off me. "If we've got enough, we should bring extras," I said. "In case some kick off along the way. And we could give the River a few extra as a sign of good will."

The Ranger had drawn his dagger and was cutting some shorter lengths off the rope he had brought. He tossed a couple of pieces to me. "Let's get their hands and feet tied," he said. "It'll be easiest dragging them along the gully; we can get these two down there and then see if there's any others worth taking."

It was a minor engineering project, figuring out the most efficient means of dragging our Orcs. We ended by passing the main length of rope between their legs and each of us taking hold of one end of the rope. It drew their bound ankles together and made it fairly easy for us to lug them along. My one-handed Orc, I noticed, woke up partway through the jolting passage down the hill, but we had stuffed bits of cloth into their mouths, so he could not voice any complaint.

At the base of the hill we abandoned our bound victims and paced over the field of battle. Three of the remaining seven, we found, were still alive. One was pinned to the earth with an arrow that had passed through a lung, to judge by the pinkish foam at his mouth. One was painfully inching his way along the floor of the clearing. An arrow still sticking in the back of one knee must have cut through the tendon, for he moved like a half-crushed bug, crawling lopsidedly and collapsing every time he tried to force himself to stand. He snarled out some Orcish curse at us, but he had not enough mobility to avoid the blow from Cirion's axe handle, that knocked him out cold.

The third had an arrow in his stomach. He was grasping the arrow with one hand, and his swarthy face was twisted in pain and sheened with sweat. I had to swallow back welling nausea as I thought of how I must have looked in the moments before I died.

Forcing myself not to stop and feel the places where my wounds should have been, I knocked out this Orc with my sword hilt. Then, sheathing my sword once more, I drew my dagger, crossed to the one with the arrow in his lung, and slit his throat.

"Let's get going," I said. "We'll take these four; some of them ought to make it."

We dragged our first two captives to the centre of the clearing and cut more pieces of rope to bind those with the cut tendon and the stomach wound. Passing the rope through their legs, like the others, we took up the rope ends and set out again, like two workhorses pulling some peculiar piece of farm equipment. A tiller, perhaps, I thought; if we turned the Orcs over on their fronts, their nails ought to be rather good at loosening up the soil.

It was awkward going, for the first stretch through the gully. It was narrow enough that Cirion and I could not really walk abreast; we kept ending up having to walk partially on the slope, and the Orcs kept jumbling up on top of each other as they bounced along behind us. The gully finally widened out, and from there we made fairly good time. But I could not banish the insidious thought that we might already be too late.

If the River had already taken our comrades – _well, yes_? my mind demanded. _If It has already taken them, what then_? It was not as if there was anything I could do. I could hardly take revenge on the Anduin.

The River greeted us with a cool, dancing breeze and the raucous cries of the seagulls. The sun, moving downward in the western sky, gilded the scene around us as it sank into a grey-gold sea of clouds. As we climbed the ridge once more, dragging our Orcs behind, it might have been any other spring afternoon upon the shores of the Anduin. Except for the detour that the River took around Lilla Howe.

The wall of water was still there, rising up from its banks like a vision of delirium. The gleaming green wall stood before us, tinged gold from the sunlight, encircling the barrow with only the tomb's peak visible above the waves.

At first I thought that our friends were gone. Then I discerned shapes on the little island – lumps that might be Men seated on the ground, and other figures that were probably Men lying down. And one small standing figure not tall enough to be a Man, a motionless sentinel standing on guard, as the watchtower had stood upon Lilla Howe centuries before.

Of a sudden the sentinel moved. It started jumping up and down, and it waved.

I glanced at Cirion, whose pallid, shaky smile revealed that he'd felt the same fears as I had. Then he frowned, and nodded his head toward the wall. "Well?" he asked. "Do we just throw them in there?"

"I suppose so," I said doubtfully. We had spoken of it a bit on our way through the gully, trying to determine whether we should take our sacrifices to the wall, or to a spot where the River still flowed in Its normal course. We had both agreed that the wall of water seemed the obvious place, circling as it did around the focus of the River's rage. But now, looking at it, I could not help wondering if the wall would still be permeable as it had been when we were spat out of it, or if the Orcs would just hit it and bounce right back off.

Well, we had only one way to find out. If they did bounce off, we would just have to haul them over to the riverbed and try it again.

Cirion knelt and pulled out the rope from between the assembled legs of our captives. He stood again and matter-of-factly went about coiling the rope again. Two of the Orcs, One Hand and Leg Wound, were awake, glaring up at us in impotent rage.

"Check if the others are alive," I told Cirion. "We don't want to offend the River by giving It one that's already dead."

He hooked the rope at his belt and knelt by them again. "They're both breathing," he reported. "Think the River'll mind that they're a bit battered?"

"I don't know," I said.

Now that the moment was at hand, I felt a weird nervous dread creeping up within me.

What if it didn't work? What if we flung these damned Orcs into the River and nothing whatever happened?

Cirion stood beside me. "Will you address the River, My Lord?" he asked me.

I grimaced. Of course I knew that I should address the River, rather than just casually tossing them in. But I had no idea what to say. It is at such times that I wish someone else were the Steward's Heir and Captain-General of Gondor. If they were, that someone else would have to make all the speeches.

But we had waited more than enough. I drew a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and resigned myself to the inevitable.

"Great River!" I called out. "We bring you our duty and respects. We humbly ask that you look with favour on our gift."

I glanced over at Cirion and shrugged. It was not much of a speech, but I was damned if I could think of anything else.

Cirion nodded. We took hold of our nearest victim, he of the cut tendon. We picked him up, I at his head and Cirion at his feet. And we heaved him at the gleaming green wall.

He did not bounce back. Water splashed onto us as the Orc passed within. For a moment we still saw him, suspended inside the wall. Then something seemed to seize hold of him, sucking his body into the depths and out of our sight.

I shuddered, despite myself. I have never felt a twinge of conscience for any Orc I have slain. But this seemed so unnatural – and the River which had swallowed him had come so close to swallowing us – that I almost felt I was betraying the Orcs by giving them up to the River.

I told myself, _Better them than us. _I turned to pick up the next Orc.

One by one we flung them in. As we went on, we moved faster, heaving in each Orc while the splash was still dying from his comrade before him.

One by one they were swirled through the water. One by one they vanished.

I stared into the glowing green darkness. Then I heard Cirion's voice, low and urgent. "Stand back, My Lord. My Lord. Get back."

He reached out and grabbed me by the shoulder, yanking me away from the water. For another moment we both stood staring, then we stepped back farther, to the edge of the trees. Not that I had any faith that the trees would help us, should the River come for us.

It was moving. The waters swirled around Lilla Howe, circling faster and faster. Waves bucked and churned on the plateau's crest. As we watched, the waves somehow moved further down, racing around the side of the wall as well as its top. The white horses of the waves raged through the tower of water, sending out juts of spray that once again drenched us where we stood. Two or three times I thought I saw the bodies of the Orcs, spiralling by amid the waves. But they were gone before I could be sure.

"Oh, Valar," breathed Cirion, in a tone of awe. "Oh, Valar, will you look."

Everything had stopped. With impossible suddenness the vast green wall stood frozen, white-capped waves arrested in mid-air. Then, just as suddenly, the River surged into life.

The water reared, so high that I could no longer see the island of Lilla Howe. The River flung Itself toward Its banks, with a roar that swallowed all other sound. As the waves raced past us, there moved with them an icy wind, that chilled me like the fingers of death as it brushed over us and was gone.

The roar was succeeded by silence. Tentatively, as if they felt the same stunned wonder as we did, the seabirds started up their cries.

Cirion whispered, "I don't believe it."

Before us lay a landscape sodden and battered, but still a landscape that we knew. Beyond the ridge where we stood, the Lilla Howe headland jutted into the River. The Howe stood upon it, once more visible in its entirety. Long grasses drooped broken and bent, wildflowers lay flattened, water dripped from the plants and gleamed in puddles at the barrow's base. Mud torn loose by the torrent oozed down the hillside in vast dark gashes, as if some monster's claws had raked the Howe and scored deep into the earth.

From atop the Howe someone shouted, and the spell of awe that had held us was broken.

I ran toward the barrow, Cirion a few paces behind me. Several times each of us slipped in the mud, but we regained our footing and kept running.

Our comrades were scrambling down the Howe. One small figure raced ahead, half running and half sliding down the slope. Behind him four taller figures followed more slowly, two holding back to support the other two, who unsteadily picked their way down the hillside.

As I started up the slope of Lilla Howe, Svip charged down the Howe toward me. He slammed into me as if shot from a catapult, flinging his arms about my neck and sending me skidding downhill in an avalanche of mud.

I yelled in laughing protest as we tobogganed down the hill. We slid to a muddy halt, Svip perched on top of me and grinning like the family dog that has knocked over its master in its eagerness to welcome him home.

I had to wipe away tears of laughter. "Easy, Svip!" I begged. "Easy! You'll break me!"

Svip beamed at me in untarnished delight. "You're alive," he said.

I nodded, feeling suddenly solemn. "So are you. I am very glad of it." I had to force myself to keep the smile on my face, for the exchange had become almost painfully familiar.

Those were the words with which my brother and I had greeted each other for these two decades past, each time we met again after passing through hardship and danger. I thought of the many times I had clasped Faramir's hand and then reached out to pull him to me, as he said, "You're alive," and I answered, "So are you."

I glanced up toward the others, still finding their way down the hill. "And they are alive," I said. "I thank you for that, Svip."

He hopped off of me, sitting down in the mud a little uphill from me. "It wasn't too hard," he said. "They didn't try flinging themselves in the water. Finn and Buslai slept most of the time. Except when the River threw waves at us." He paused a moment in thought, then added, "I think It wanted to remind us It was there."

I chuckled at the thought that the River might believe it needed to remind us of that.

The seven of us had a bedraggled but heartfelt reunion, as Cirion caught up to Svip and me, and the others reached the foot of the barrow. There were few speeches, but much hand-clasping and gripping of shoulders. Thorolf's face bore an uncharacteristic grin. Holgar gazed about him in awe, as if he had suddenly found himself travelling in the company of Eärendil and his mariners. Buslai and Finn seemed much improved by their hours of sleep, though they still looked as though they could use another several days of it.

Cirion sent Holgar and Thorolf around to the regular entrance to the refuge, to investigate what damage the River might have done from that direction. The rest of us circled the Howe until we reached the burial chamber's entryway, through which we had fled just that morn – though already it seemed weeks in the past.

Back through the tunnel we crawled, into Lord Lilla's burial chamber. The chamber had survived with little damage, though the earthen floor was a sodden mire and thick mud oozed off the smooth stone slabs of the walls. Scattered here and there were bits of equipment from the refuge: a bench, a broken spear, a sack which had held loaves of waybread and was now become nothing more than a lumpy bag of flour paste. All this detritus must have been washed into the chamber through the tunnel from the refuge, and it bore grim tidings of the sight that awaited us in the refuge itself.

Cirion shook his head and wiped sticky flour paste off his hand onto the wall. Then, muttering to himself, he led the way into the tunnel.

We spent the remainder of that day in the clean-up effort. In the jumbled chaos of the Lilla Howe refuge we found a couple of soggy cots which had sustained no serious damage. Onto these we bundled Finn and Buslai, who fell asleep immediately, oblivious to the damp. The rest of us laboured through the afternoon and into the night: dragging weapons from the mud and cleaning them, repairing furniture, re-sealing the tunnel entrance to the burial chamber to forestall discovery and attack from that approach, rescuing our supplies of foodstuffs and determining what could be salvaged and what was now fit only for very hungry rats, hanging up dripping clothes and bedding from a clothes-line that we suspended from one end of the burial chamber to the other. It would have dried faster outside, of course, but we had already done enough to draw attention to ourselves. The refuge would hardly count as secret any longer if the approach to Lilla Howe were festooned with clothes-lines.

Two hours past sunset or thereabouts, we woke Finn and Buslai and sat down to a scanty but welcome meal of only partially mushy bread and no-longer-quite-so-dried apricots. Then our recently drowned comrades immediately betook themselves to bed. The rest of us followed suit, except for Cirion who left to take up his shift on watch.

My bed consisted of a half-dried blanket spread out on the squelching mud floor. Sleep came swiftly, but it brought with it dreams I could gladly have done without.

I saw silver-grey waves, and whirlpools with drowned Orcs spiralling in their depths. I saw myself reaching into the water for something just out of my grasp. It kept changing from Svip into the Horn of Gondor, into a gleaming gold ring, and back into Svip again. Each time my hand nearly touched it, it was washed out of my reach.

At some point in the night my dream changed.

I was standing in my father's study, clasping my hands behind my back to keep them from visibly trembling. I do not know if I was my current self, or if I had become a boy again. Probably my age kept changing from one moment to the next. But my father's words did not change, whatever age I might be.

He stood behind his desk, the torchlight imparting an unearthly gleam to his eyes. He waited in silence, long enough to make me want to squirm from the chilling scorn of his gaze. Then he said, in his quiet tone that was a thousand times worse than shouting, "You know how much you have disappointed me."

I stood as straight as I possibly could. "Yes, Father."

"I expected better of you."

"Yes, Sir."

"You know what the Horn meant to our family. What it should have meant to _you_. Stewards' Heirs have borne the Horn for twenty-seven generations. Now tell me, of all those Heirs, why it should be you who brings the Horn home in pieces."

"I'm sorry, Father," I said, fighting to stop myself from blushing.

"I don't want to hear that you are sorry. I want to see you do better."

"Yes, Sir."

He pulled back his chair and sat down, starting to sort through a stack of parchments on his desk and not looking at me as he spoke. "I want you to go to your room and think about what you've done. When our armies depart from the City tomorrow, you will remain here and attend to your studies."

I gasped in shock. "But, Sir – "

"I don't want to hear any debate. You have leave to go to your room."

"My Lord!" I blurted. "I cannot let my troops go into battle without me."

"You can and you will." He glanced up from the documents before him, with a look that would have frozen Mount Doom.

"But, My Lord, they need me."

"Your Men have no need of a commander who has not learned to face the consequences of his failures."

I stood at attention, my voice and my hands trembling with anger. "I have learned to face them, sir."

"Not well enough. Perhaps this will teach you how. Perhaps remaining here while all of your friends go to Mordor will teach you to accept responsibility for your actions."

"Father, please – "

He looked up from the parchments with an expression of mild surprise. "Did you say something, Boromir? I believe I gave you permission to go to your room."

I woke to find that I had shifted off the blanket in my sleep. My face was pressed against the mud floor. I sat up, grimacing, and blinked at the room about me in the light of the one glimmering torch.

The Rangers had changed their shift on watch. Cirion was asleep, wrapped up in another of our half-dry blankets, and the blanket that had made up Holgar's bed was empty. Thorolf, Finn and Buslai all slept, and I noticed that neither Finn nor Buslai seemed to have changed their positions by the fraction of an inch in the hours since I had fallen asleep.

I watched them for a while in the dim torchlight, just to be sure that they were both breathing.

"They will be all right."

The whispered voice came from Svip. I started in surprise, and noticed him sitting up in his wooden wash basin. He had been hidden from me before by three barrels, all that was left intact of the fourteen barrels of wine and foodstuffs that had been stored here before the flood.

Svip went on, still in a whisper, "It took you a day and two nights before you were really up and about."

I stood and crossed to sit down again beside Svip's washing-up bowl.

I whispered, "Will they be tied to the River?"

He shook his head. "They shouldn't be. I didn't have to do anything special with them. The Silverweed was all it took. With you – there were all those wounds. That's why I needed the mud and the River water. It was simpler with them. They should be able to go anywhere they could before – I think."

I nodded. I was glad for them, though if I were to be truly honest I would admit to a twinge of disappointment, that I would not now have two comrades bound by the same limitations as I.

"What are you doing awake?" I asked Svip. "You need your sleep too, you know."

Svip nodded back, his gaze fixed on Buslai and Finn. "I'll sleep soon," he said. "I'm just – watching."

I wondered what he was thinking. If, in the long run, he was sorry or glad that he had brought Finn and Buslai back.

And if he was sorry or glad that he had brought me back.

He'd said he wanted to learn about the ways of Men. Now he was learning. He had learned from me that Men were capable of manipulating, and hurting, and forcing others to their will, to gain something that they wanted.

I wondered if the River considered our slate wiped clean, and if It would let Svip come back to live in It again. Or if my affront to the River had closed his home to him forever.

I wanted to ask him about it, but I did not dare.

"Get some sleep, Svip," I whispered.

I went back to my muddy blanket, and my dreams of the River and my father.

All the next day we remained at Lilla Howe, cleaning and repairing the refuge and giving Finn and Buslai another day of sleep. I longed to be gone, to set out once more on our interrupted journey. But I knew it was our duty to leave the refuge in some kind of usable state, for the next Men of Gondor who would stop there. And I knew we would make scant progress if we did not give Finn and Buslai some time to recover their strength.

Late in that afternoon I left the others, on the pretext of checking if the things on the clothes-line were dry yet. Alone in Lord Lilla's burial chamber, I sat down on one of the rock slabs we'd torn loose from the wall, in our desperate attempt to hold back the River.

We had come through alive. All of us. This battle at least, we had won.

Yet the knowledge gnawed at me of how close I had come to getting us all killed.

As their commander, it was my part to be concerned for the lives of my Men. Yet it was not my part to heedlessly endanger four others, and myself, in a mad quest to restore two lives that were already lost.

It was not my part to trample over Svip's protests, to ignore all of his pleas, because my pride refused to accept that two Men had died and I had failed to save them.

If it was my duty as Captain-General to safeguard Gondor's people, then surely I should have accepted the loss of two, to protect the others. The families of Cirion, Thorolf and Holgar would not have been comforted to know that their loved ones had perished because the Lord Boromir insisted on throwing his gauntlet in the face of death.

And yet. Accepting the loss of two that I might safeguard five, was an arithmetic problem which looked simple enough on paper. But it would bring scant consolation to the families of Buslai and Finn.

At least their families now had the chance to welcome them home again.

Svip appeared to have forgiven me, but it was a forgiveness I did not deserve. I had shown no regard for his advice. I had wantonly risked not only his life but his standing in the eyes of the River, that was at once his home and the being that defined his existence.

As I had so often done, when some decision I had made came back again to haunt me, I asked myself what Faramir would have done.

None could accuse him of not caring for the lives of his men. Had he been here instead of I, the loss of Buslai and Finn would have wounded him as deeply as it did me. His might even be a more honest grief than mine, for it would not be tainted by the pride that sees every loss as an insult to one's own prowess.

He would have grieved for them. But would he have pressured Svip to bring them back, had the chance been offered to him as it was to me?

No, I thought. He would not. He would not have used Svip as I had. He would not have risked the lives of the others in order to bring back two.

If he had been here instead of I, Buslai Son of Brynjolf and Finn Son of Thorstein would still be dead.

But was that the better choice? I argued the question in my mind, as I would have argued it aloud had Faramir been sitting beside me to debate it.

It was the proper choice, the sensible choice. But did that make it the right one?

It was not the right choice for those who would grieve when Finn and Buslai did not return.

"My Lord." Cirion stepped out of the passageway that led up from the refuge. After a moment's hesitation, he sat down on another rock next to mine.

He had his grim look again, but this time I was fairly sure that the grimness was not aimed at me. I nodded to him and waited for him to speak.

"My Lord," he repeated. There was another pause, then he said, not looking at me, "I want to thank you. For saving their lives."

I almost laughed; the statement was so unexpected and so jarringly at odds with my own gloomy musings. But if I'd laughed he might think that I mocked him, so I held my peace. "And risking the lives of the rest of you," I pointed out.

"We do not grudge that, My Lord," he said, turning a sharp, keen-eyed gaze on me. "You did what all of us would have done, if we'd had the power and the knowledge."

_Or_, my mind added silently, _if you'd had a trusting, innocent friend that you could manipulate into doing what he knew he should not do_. I said, "I doubt your families would applaud my actions that heartily, if I had succeeded only in getting all of you drowned."

"They are not here to make our decisions for us," Cirion said quietly. "We are here to do that. And we must make the best decisions we can, here and now, rather than worrying over what they would think of every action."

I sighed. _It's good advice_, I told myself. _Advice that perhaps you should remember, whenever you start tormenting yourself over what your brother would have done_.

_Or over what your father would say_.

Cirion looked at me for another moment, then shrugged. "You can blame yourself for it if it pleases you, My Lord," he said. "But I thank you. For doing what I would have done, if I could." He stared into the dimness of the Howe, absently fingering the handle of his axe. "There is the chance that at the end of this mission I need not pen any letters of condolence. For that chance, I would risk much."

We sat in silence, as I turned his words over in my mind. Finally I nodded.

"Is it your plan that we set out tomorrow morning?" I inquired.

"Aye. Finn and Buslai seem much improved; by the morrow they should be rested enough to attempt the journey."

"Good," I said. This two days' delay was maddening to me, but there was no help for it. I knew that it must be just as maddening to Cirion and the others; to Buslai and Finn as much as to any of us.

The taunting question whispered in my mind, _What if Minas Tirith falls and you are not there in time to fight for it? What if you reach it two days too late, the two days that you spent at Lilla Howe?_

I thought of my father's words in my dream. That I still had to learn to face the consequences of my failures.

I wondered if that truly meant anything. If it had some crucial meaning like my father's dreams, and Faramir's. Or if it was just nonsensical ramblings and fears, like anyone else's dreams.

I wondered if facing my failures had anything to teach me. Or if failure was merely a challenge to spur one on to victory.

I wondered what I would do, if someday I faced a failure out of which no victory could be gained.

As I stood and crossed to the clothes-line spread out across Lord Lilla's tomb, I prayed that I would never learn the answer to that question.


	8. Chapter Eight: In the Vanguard of the St...

Author's Note (September 2002): Hello! I hope there really are folks out there who like long chapters, because this one has become The Chapter that Ate the World. And it doesn't even continue as far as I originally meant it to, but I had to draw the line somewhere. Anyway, I hope people can wade their way through it!

At one point in this chapter, the date March 10 is mentioned. The little knowledge I have of the differences between the Shire Reckoning and the Stewards' Reckoning is due to Lady Elwing of Man of Gondor, and her site Lithe Days: Middle Earth Information. I haven't got my brain around all of it yet, but I trust her! So, for those who like to keep track of this sort of thing, the date given as March 10 here is in the Stewards' Reckoning, and is the same day as the March 9 listed in the chronology in Tolkien's ROTK appendices.

Enjoy, I hope!

_Chapter Eight: In the Vanguard of the Storm_

We left Lilla Howe the next morning, as the first fingers of dawn touched the sky.

We spoke little, and for the most part we avoided meeting one another's eyes. When my gaze did cross those of my comrades', the emotions that played across their faces seemed the mirror of my own.

None of us spoke of it, but I believe that all our thoughts held the same fears.

It was too much like the last time all of us had left the refuge by this route.

The similarity to our departure two days ago brought me the dread that those two days had not passed at all. That we were still back there, two days before, and that everything would turn out the same – that we would still encounter the Orcs on the riverbank, and that Buslai and Finn would still die.

As we walked toward the River, into the growing dawn, I wondered if this were how it felt to Faramir when his visions came true. When events that he had witnessed in dreams started coming to pass before his waking eyes.

I told myself the feeling was superstitious foolishness. However it might seem like the same day come back again, it was not. The Orcs who had slain our friends were dead. And unlike Finn and Buslai, they had no one to bring them back.

Whether deliberately or otherwise, we chose a different order of march than we had that last time we set out. Cirion and I switched places, he marching at the head of the column and I at the rear. This time Svip stuck close by me, not scampering far afield as he had done the time before. At the centre of the group, Finn and Buslai walked steadily, no longer requiring the other Rangers' support. But their faces bore haunted looks that I understood all too well.

All would be well, I assured myself. It would be well, as soon as we had passed the locations where the two of them drowned before. Once we reached new ground, my comrades' confidence would be restored – as would my own.

The tension hung about us thick as a fog. Once again we made our way down the slope to the riverbank. I think, the usual caution of the Rangers notwithstanding, we cast twice as many glances behind us as usual as we sought to assure ourselves that no Orcs were creeping up along our trail.

No word was spoken by any of us as we doggedly marched past the places where we had fought.

Orc corpses were there aplenty. The tall grasses hid those that must be lying on the bank above, but those we had slain in the River bore witness to the fact that our battle at this spot had indeed been two days in the past.

The flood that had threatened us must not have had any impact downriver, or I would have expected the corpses to be washed away. They had been borne a little downstream, but only as far as the nearest rock or snag that could arrest their progress. New holes rent through clothing and flesh showed that various animals had been at work. Those that lay with their faces to the sky had been thoroughly worked upon by the carrion eaters, eyeballs pecked out and noses, lips and ears more or less gnawed away. The heat and the water had wrought their predictable effect, and the bloated forms bobbed upon the River's breast like rafts of inflated goat bladders. The familiar odour of decay was strong even at this early hour; in the heat of the day it would create a stench that even the hardiest veteran would be loathe to breathe for long.

All of us save for Buslai and Finn cast grim, worried glances at each other, at the bloated corpses, and at our recently drowned comrades. Only Buslai and Finn never once glanced at the River and its grisly burden. They marched with gazes straight ahead, without hesitation or pause. But it took no great insight to notice the death-grip of Buslai's hand on his sword hilt, or the pallor of Finn's face, white and set as that of any of the statues in the Tower Hall.

All that day we marched, and as our battleground fell further behind us so too did the worst of the dark, oppressing dread. It still was no picnic party upon which we were engaged, but the pall on our spirits gradually fell away. Conversations began, in the low, muted tones of those who march through disputed territory. Svip once more looked about him with more interest than fear, though he still stuck close by my side.

We paused for a brief noon meal of foodstuffs we had scrounged together from Lilla Howe's damaged supplies. As we ate, we could not help but notice how tired and worn both Finn and Buslai looked, far more than any of the rest of us.

Svip offered that he could turn into a horse and bear each of them in turn. Despite their protests, Cirion ordered them to accept. For some time that afternoon first Finn rode and then Buslai, though Svip's steps soon began to drag a bit on Buslai's turn. The young Ranger insisted on dismounting the sooner, rather than slow our progress by putting too great a burden on Svip's back.

Three times we saw what we assumed to be bands of Orcs in the distance, travelling south, twice on the East shore and once on the West. But they were far from us and did not seem to spot us, and we successfully took shelter in the grasses of the riverbank until the danger of discovery was past.

The air about us grew warmer and the sunlight brighter, the farther south we travelled into our own land. The warmth of the sun on my face brought a thrill of homecoming, and I had to smile a little as I thought of how I had longed for the caressing breezes and gentle air of Gondor while we ploughed through the snow of Caradhras, or picked our way through the icy chill blackness of Moria.

_Better late than never_, I thought, though I wished with all my heart that my journey had brought me home long months earlier – or better yet, that I had never left.

And the homecoming was bittersweet, as they so often are. The Sunland might be as warm and welcoming as always, but the land we loved had already been touched by the hand of war.

We met no one on our journey south. Even the birds and animals that we glimpsed seemed more skittish than usual and more subdued in their calls, though I suppose that might only have been my imagination. Apart from the distant bands of Orcs, we encountered none but ourselves.

The lands north of the Pelannor have never been heavily populated, in my lifetime or several before it. In the days of Beregond, when our borders came under attack, the population of our northlands dwindled. For a time then the danger seemed past, and some settlers moved north again and founded new farms and homesteads. Then in Túrin II's reign came the next dark years, and again all but the hardiest or most stubborn fled.

But the land is too fertile to be left empty for long. And our people have no taste for defeat. Again some of the more daring, willing to fight the occasional Orcs along with insects and crop blights and drought, sallied northward and built up some of the richest farms in the kingdom.

Never had I seen these northlands empty as I saw them now. It sent a chill through my blood, and made me feel that we were not living in our own days at all, but in some dark year out of the history books. It was a cold and painful reality to accept, that our own days had become as dark as any of which we might read in the pages of some dusty chronicle.

As we marched south, we saw none of the farmers and fisherfolk of North Anórien. The only fishing-boats we saw along the River were the most ancient and dilapidated hulks, too worn out to be worthy of repair. And in the farmlands on the low rolling hills, there was no sign of life, no movement beyond the occasional flight of some bird. The fields, the vineyards, the olive groves, all were silent and still. Each cottage and farmhouse and each villa standing proudly on its hill seemed like paintings from the ancient past, still preserving the colours and images of a world long gone, but with none of the people who had given them life.

The Rangers informed me that the evacuation of the countryside had been going on for weeks now, since it had become obvious that the Enemy was steeling himself for some decisive strike. For the past several months many had left of their own choice, moving in to the City or to the fortress towns of the White Mountains, or to Lossarnach and points farther south. But when the recent larger troop movements were observed, of Men of Harad marching to join the Nameless One in his wastelands, my father had ordered that all the northern settlements be emptied.

None but our soldiers were to remain north of Rammas Echor. Nor were the evacuees permitted to move in to Minas Tirith, save only for such brief stops as might be required to make purchases for their journey. It was said, the Rangers told me, that even the evacuation of the Pelennor and the White City itself was being contemplated by my father and the Council. Evacuees from our northlands were allowed only to head for destinations in the White Mountains or further south, and it had taken much of the manpower of the northern garrisons and the City to see the evacuation carried out successfully and prevent it from slipping into chaos.

Cirion's face grew grim again as he spoke of it, and he made some muttered comment on the lines that if those troops had been employed in seeking out the Enemy and halting his advance before he reached our lands, the evacuation would never have been necessary.

He had a point, but at the same time I was glad that our people were not here. And that, if the fates were willing, the battles ahead might be fought army to army, without thousands of civilians losing their lives in the process.

Although, I thought, even if we won hands-down, it would not be the end of the harsh realities confronting us. Our people might find themselves returning to homes and fields and villages that were no more than burnt-out ruins. And even if, by some chain of miracles, the decisive battle came immediately and we were entirely victorious, it would still take weeks to get all the citizens of the Pelennor and North Anórien back to their homes. It would mean two months or more, from the start of the evacuation through the last of our people's return, of untended fields, crops not sown, fishing trips not taken, businesses neglected. Half the growing season lost this year, would mean privations and risk of famine in the year ahead.

It gave me a headache to think of it. As I marched southward with my comrades, I heard little of their hushed conversations. My brain was filled with calculations of how much food reserves we had in our warehouses, how much we could requisition from our southern tributaries without putting too great strain on their resources, and what other nations there were with whom we could negotiate for food and supplies, without revealing to them the full extent of our weakness and tempting them to attack us while we were still reeling from the Dark Lord's assault.

That night we made camp at the refuge carved into the pilings of the old Mardil Bridge, sixteen miles to the north of Cair Andros. The refuge, like the lands we had passed through that day, was untenanted. But here, this emptiness was a surprise, and perhaps an ominous warning.

On the westernmost of the great stone pilings, that rise up like the stumps of gigantic trees where this mighty bridge once stood, a warning beacon was established during my grandfather's reign. The soldiers who man the beacon are garrisoned in the refuge built underneath the pilings. To find none of them here and no hint of their whereabouts, was a sign that awoke forebodings in all of us.

Cirion told me that the three soldiers of this post had been here when he and his party passed through on their way north. We could find no sign of combat or any other trouble, but the fact remained that the three Men were gone.

It was possible that the troops in this region had been recalled, abandoning North Anórien to make a stand at Cair Andros or Osgiliath. But had that been the case, it would have been standard practice for the order to be left in the refuge with the other official dispatches, for isolated troops such as Cirion's band to find when they stopped at the refuge. We found no such communiqué, and we were left with the mystery and the warning.

Cirion decreed, with a tone and a face that brooked no argument, that Buslai and Finn were not to take up their shifts in the watch-keeping that night. Both looked unhappy at the order, but if truth be told, they seemed almost too weary to keep awake.

I volunteered to take Finn's place on the first shift. It was a deeper satisfaction than I had expected, when Captain Cirion accepted my offer without hesitation.

_So_, I thought, _I may be back from the dead and I may have nearly got Cirion and all his men killed, but at least I'm no longer under suspicion as a spy_.

As I made my way out from the refuge again with Svip at my heels, it occurred to me that my actions at the Howe had probably been so heroically stupid, they proved I could be none other than Boromir himself.

Svip had promised he would be quiet if I let him stand the watch with me. He proved true to his word. We found a spot atop the westernmost piling, fairly concealed amidst the jumble of building stones, but providing a commanding view of the countryside. I lay down on my front and Svip sat, and together we watched as daylight faded and the first stars sprang into life.

More than stars were visible in the scene before us. I had thought, when the daylight still held sway, that I could see thin tendrils of smoke rising in the distance to the east. Now in that same region there appeared pinpricks of fire. Six or seven of them, I thought, though I could not discern whether some of them were one larger fire or two smaller ones close together.

There was no sign of the fires spreading. They were most likely campfires. And in this land, in these times, I had no doubt that they were the campfires of our enemy.

The place where I had seen the smoke, I judged, must be about two leagues distant. I whispered to Svip to keep an eye on those fires, and I turned my focus to the nearer ground about the refuge.

I suppose it was only to be expected as I lay there, that my thoughts should turn to the most recent occasions when I had taken a shift on watch – and to the company with whom I had been travelling then. Unbidden, as my gaze passed time and again over the darkened land surrounding us, I thought of the comrades I had lost at Amon Hen.

Nearly a fortnight must have passed since our ways had parted.

The one scrap of knowledge that I had of them was that sometime before Cirion's Rangers had met the messenger from Rohan, Rohirrim Riders had encountered travellers who spoke of my death.

Countless scenarios could account for that fact. I could make up explanations all night, but there was little likelihood I'd stumble upon the right one.

I tried not to let my mind dwell on useless speculations. But one question kept coming back to me.

Suppose, against all the odds, Aragorn and the others had followed the Orcs and somehow managed to rescue Merry and Pippin. If they had, where would they go then?

It depended, I thought, on where the pursuers had overtaken the Halflings' captors. If it were not too far along on the way to Isengard, then they might have retraced their steps and turned immediately to the challenge of finding some way into Mordor. I doubted they would have attempted to scale the wall of Emyn Muil; more like they would have cut slightly south and crossed Anduin below Rauros – perhaps passing within a few miles or a few feet of Svip's house.

But if the rescue had taken longer? If it had taken them near to Saruman's fortress – or even within it?

What then? Would they undertake the crossing of Rohan's wilderness once more? Or would they take the longer but easier route and follow the Great West Road?

If they had done that, their route would take them almost within sight of Minas Tirith.

I frowned as I thought of it, my eyes steadily scanning the scene below us.

If they should find themselves that close to my City, what would they do?

For Frodo, I thought bitterly, going to Minas Tirith was probably the last course he'd wish to follow. How could he think of it without thinking of me? Without thinking of my constant arguments that we should go to the White City – and of that cursed moment of stupidity when I'd acted like some common brigand instead of Captain-General of Gondor?

If the choice were Frodo's, they would probably not follow the Great West Road at all. After I'd behaved so abominably, Frodo would likely brave the wilderness a thousand times over, sooner than journey near the strongholds of Men.

But if they did follow the Road …

How would Aragorn choose?

He had sworn to me, all those months ago in Rivendell, that he would go to Minas Tirith and devote his sword to our cause.

If that oath meant anything to him – if he cared aught for the kingdom he claimed, and if Gondor's present peril was as grim as my father and the Council seemed to think that it was – could he pass so near to Minas Tirith and _not_ go to its aid?

To tell the truth, I did not envy him that choice. For though he had vowed to go to the City and stand with us against our foes, so also had he vowed to protect the Ringbearer. He could not fulfil both oaths. Or, he could not fulfil them if he held to his faith in the plan that the Elves and the Wizard had concocted. If he persisted in believing that the only possible course was to toss the Ring into Mount Doom, then he must either betray his oath to me and to Gondor or his oath to Frodo and the quest. There was no way to remain loyal to both.

It was too much to hope for, I supposed, that Aragorn or the others had finally seen what I'd been saying all along. That they'd decided instead of traipsing into the Enemy's arms, to take the Ring to Minas Tirith.

_There is no point in thinking about it, _I told myself. I did not know what had happened, or might be happening, to the Ring. No matter how much I tormented myself, there was nothing I could do about it.

I must have muttered something, or perhaps I didn't quite manage to hold back a snarl. I did something alarming, anyhow, for I suddenly noticed Svip casting me a startled and worried look.

I forced a smile. In the pale, dim light of the near full moon, I saw an answering smile from Svip, but he still kept a worried gaze on me. I sighed at the thought that it was the same sort of look I have so often got from my brother, when he thinks I'm about to go on some kind of a rampage.

I thought that I ought to tell Svip about the Ring. About the Ring, and all the damned soul-searching struggling I'd been putting myself through over it for months. And about the wretched day when I had finally tried to take the Ring and put myself out of my misery.

I ought to tell him about it, if nothing else because it would help me calm myself down if I could put it into words instead of just churning it around inside my skull.

I ought to tell him, but I didn't want him to think badly of me – any more than he must already. To see the disappointment and distrust in his face would be nearly as bad as seeing those looks from Faramir.

"I'm all right, Svip," I whispered to him. "Everything's fine."

_Oh, yes_, I thought. _Everything's fine. My country's under assault, the Enemy's greatest weapon is in the charge of a halfling who's got every Ringwraith in Middle Earth flapping along on his trail, and I've lost my chance to do anything about the damned bloody Ring and now I couldn't use it against the Dark Lord if it was right under my nose._

To my surprise, I found myself breaking into a rueful grin.

I'd never been able to make up my mind, all those months when I was stewing over what to do about the Ring. Most of the time, I think, I'd thought that if we did take the Ring to Minas Tirith, the best and wisest course would be to hide it somewhere in the depths of the Citadel, where at least it would be out of the Enemy's reach. Or at least, it would be until he destroyed us.

But every now and then, the thought had sneaked into my mind that perhaps I was the one to use it against him. That with the Ring I could lead our troops into Mordor, I could end our centuries of peril and fear, I could avenge all the lives he had destroyed and tear a reckoning from the Nameless One's heart.

Well, that was one thing that I knew was not going to be happening.

Even if, against the odds, I should find Frodo and our company and the Ring waiting for me in Minas Tirith, I could not bear the Ring to Mordor at the head of our armies. I could not, because I couldn't go ten bloody miles from the blasted Great River.

And if I wasn't able to use it, would anyone?

Aragorn might, if he truly believed that he was the rightful king – for as Isildur's Heir he was also, in a way, the heir to the Ring.

But he would not do it. Not unless all his noble speeches about no Man being strong enough to use the Ring had been cooked up to hide his true thoughts from the rest of us – or from himself. And I did not believe that of him, much though I would have liked to believe anything discreditable about him.

Faramir would not do it – not if anyone told him that Mithrandir had gone to his death firm in the belief that the Ring had to be tossed into the fire.

And our father …

I had to grin again. Now that was a frightening thought.

Goodness knew our father could be frightening enough without the Ring. It really did not bear thinking of what he might be like with it.

My mind conjured up an image of the Lord Steward grown forty feet tall, with an icy voice that could slice through Men's skulls, and eyes of flame that saw the thoughts of all Middle Earth.

Come to think of it, that pretty much described my father already.

I tried not to laugh at the thought, to avoid convincing poor Svip that I'd gone entirely insane.

I told myself, _Apart from the bit about being forty feet tall, there's not much to choose between Father with the Ring and without it_.

I more or less managed to keep my temper through the rest of that watch. A few times my thoughts tried to creep back along the same paths. But I held them off by calling up the image of my forty-foot father, brandishing the Ring and treating Sauron to the same sort of lecture he had so often given me.

As long as I amused myself with that vision, it kept me from brooding quite so deeply on the horrors of our situation.

The pale yellow moon had climbed high in the sky when Cirion crept up the piling to take the next shift on watch. We held a brief whispered consultation on the campfires to the East, and our probable proximity to the enemy. Then Svip and I made our way back into the refuge.

Finn, Buslai and Thorolf all slept, stretched out in various locations near the walls of the square stone chamber. Young Holgar was seated by the firepit in the centre of the earthen floor, staring down at the darkling glow of the embers.

A small selection of bread, dried meat and cheese sat atop a wine barrel, across the firepit from Holgar. Svip and I crossed to the barrel and sat down by it, both of us casting curious glances at Holgar as we helped ourselves to the food.

The young Man smiled automatically at us as we sat down, but the smile swiftly vanished. The expression on Holgar's face told me that I had not been alone in pondering dark matters this night.

Now that I thought of it, Holgar's mood had seemed to grow ever more grim as the day drew on. He alone had not seemed to have his thoughts lightened when we left behind us the place where Finn and Buslai had died.

I said, as I tore off a piece of bread and passed the loaf on to Svip, "You have seemed troubled all day. More so than any of the others. Would it help to speak of it?"

Holgar hesitated, glancing up from the fire and then down again.

"My home is near here," he answered at last, in a tone almost too soft to hear. "The creek we passed, just before sunset – if you head up it for two miles, you'll come to our house. My father and brothers are fishermen … all of us in my family are, except for me."

I thought back, remembering that creek. Svip had found a crayfish burrow in its banks, but when I stopped and looked back at him he'd hurried to catch up, rather than take the time to investigate. I thought that perhaps I remembered Holgar pausing and looking along the stream's course, but I wasn't sure.

"Have you heard from your family?" I asked him.

"Aye, My Lord. They left two weeks ago. The rest of them had wanted to for months, but my father kept saying he wouldn't leave. My mother finally just told him that they were going, and he could either get in the cart of his own free will or she'd tie him up and throw him in."

Despite his worry, Holgar could not keep from grinning a little at that. Nor could I.

"I wish I'd seen it," Holgar admitted. Then he sighed. "They stopped at Cair Andros to see me, but we were out in Ithilien then and I missed them. My brother wrote a letter and left it for me at the fort; that's how I know they've gone."

I asked, "Have they someplace to go?"

He nodded. "My oldest sister's husband is a tavern keeper in Calenhad. They're going to stay with them." A wry, melancholy smile touched his lips. "My father'll hate it. He can't stand those little mountain streams up there. Says they never have any decent fish."

I only half heard most of the conversation that followed. Svip asked Holgar about his father's fishing business, and the young Man ended up giving Svip a complete history of his family. I quietly munched my meal, while Holgar told Svip the names of all his siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews, and described his childhood visits to Calenhad and the fishing techniques used along this stretch of the River. But my thoughts wandered onto gloomy pathways once again.

Holgar's words had made me think of all of our people whom this conflict had forced from their homes. Our people all over Gondor this night, who must know that they might never see their homes again.

I wondered how many had simply refused to leave. Our soldiers, I assumed, would have succeeded in removing most of them by force. But how many might still be left, hiding from our own Men and the enemy alike?

How many of those would be dead before this fight was over?

It would be foolishness, I knew, to blame myself for what we were facing now. None of us had built the roads that led us to these days.

My father had told me I know not how oft, that no commander can afford to sink himself in guilt for those he has lost. That so long as he fights on, and gives his all to save those who are left, then he has not betrayed the trust that was placed in him.

I knew that it was true, and that guilt would serve no one but the Enemy. But I could not stop myself from feeling that there must have been something more that I – that all of us who ruled Gondor – could have done. That there must have been some way to turn back this day. And that it was our fault for not finding that way, for not managing to hold off the tide of war that was now to sweep over all of us.

For as far back as I can remember, my father had told me the decisive battle that sealed Gondor's fate would come in our time. That was why, he told me, we must always be working to improve ourselves, to strengthen our bodies and our minds, to build up our armies and hone them to constant readiness. We must never be satisfied, he told me, with what seemed good enough. We must always be working, and fighting, and thinking harder, and what seemed impossible to us one day must be possible the next.

I remember that I loved to hear him speak like that, when I was a boy. My blood thrilled to hear it, with the same joy and excitement as when I saw our troops march forth from Minas Tirith, and when I watched the soldiers of the Citadel Guard training for combat. I exulted in the thought that when the decisive trial came, I would be part of it. And I was never so happy as when I was putting myself through new challenges, to live up to what my father expected of me and what Gondor required.

I think the moment when I truly grew up was not on any birthday, or in any ceremony, or even in the midst of battle. My childhood was over in the moment when I first realised that when the final battle came, we might not win.

I had tried to deny it, to keep working harder as my father said, as if I could negate the possibility of Gondor's defeat by making myself invincible.

But there were still times when the thought came creeping in, cold and taunting and undeniable.

We could lose.

My father and my brother and I, like so many of our ancestors before us, had spent our entire lives fighting for Gondor's survival.

But if my father was right, and we would see the last battle, then we might be the ones to see Gondor die.

A mocking whisper danced through my brain, _It would not die if you had taken the Ring_.

_If you had been strong enough, if you had seized the Ring and not let it go, Gondor would never fall_.

_Shut up_, my mind snarled. _I don't want to hear about the Ring_.

Holgar and Svip were still talking when I retired to sleep. I lay there watching the dim firelight on their faces, as I repeated in my mind the vow and the promise and the hope that I had thought so many times before.

W_e will not lose. We will not lose. Gondor will not fall_.

When I fell asleep, I dreamed of the Ring.

It was two hours past dawn that next day, when I decided I must be under a curse.

The morning began well. It was glorious spring weather, the air soft and rich with the scents of grasses and flowers. The bright sun rose over a landscape that seemed untouched by war – apart from the absence of any people, and the faint hint of the enemy's campfire smoke on the air, borne to us on an occasional twist of breeze.

We cut inland from the bridge for about a mile, to where a long, thin stretch of trees runs parallel to the River. We had seen no sign of activity from our Orc neighbours across the Anduin, but if they or their fellows should be on the move, we'd have better chances of avoiding discovery if we kept our path under the shelter of the trees.

For those first couple of hours we made good time, despite the extra caution with which we picked our way, expecting Orcs to pop up from behind every shrub. Thorolf was now travelling some ways ahead, as an advance guard. Occasionally we would hear his bird-call whistle signalling that all was well.

Then suddenly came the signal to advance with caution. A moment later the breeze changed direction, and it carried to us a new, stronger reek of smoke, whispering at us through the forest ahead.

We were ten miles north of Cair Andros. I knew this when we stepped from the trees into the clearing cut for a hundred yards on either side of the old Lesser West Road. The road strikes north from the island fortress and then divides in two, one road paralleling Entwash and the other striking off to join with the Great West Road, at a point forty miles to the south and west.

Along the road ten miles north of the fortress stands a stone livery stable and messenger station. The road now stretched out before us, with the stable just on the other side of it.

The thatched roof of the building was gone, except for a few charred sections of wooden beams that had somehow not fallen when the roof burned.

No living creature, Man or Orc, met our eyes. But we saw two dark shapes sprawled before the entrance to the stable, in the sallow dust of the road. Shapes that all too easily resolved themselves into the bodies of Men.

Beyond the livery stable, from the trees at the far side of the road, we heard another bird call from Thorolf. The way was clear, but he was investigating further.

With the others close behind me, I walked to the bodies on the road.

Their brown leather jerkins and black cloaks told that they were soldiers of the North Anórien garrisons. The clothes of both were soaked through with blood. And both of them had been decapitated, their necks mere jagged stumps. The heads were nowhere to be seen.

I heard Cirion hiss out an oath, and I had to bite back one of my own.

The two were not freshly slain. I thought they had most likely been lying there since sometime yesterday. Judging from the smell and the insects that moved upon them, they had lain out in the sun for longer than these two hours of the morning.

With their heads gone, I could see nothing to immediately tell us their names. There was every likelihood that my comrades the Rangers knew both of them, and a reasonable chance that I did as well. But the foes who had robbed them of their lives had taken their identities as well.

Cirion made for the door of the stable. A moment later I followed him.

The livery stable had the standard floor plan of these buildings: a rectangular shape like the old longhouses, a loft that ran the whole length of the building, a small one-storey room for the human occupants to the right of the door, and the remaining three quarters of the building given over to the horses' stalls and a work area that doubled as a minimal smithy.

Half of the loft itself, most of the hay that had been stored in it, and almost all of the roof above had burned. Someone, though I had a hard time imagining who, had put out the fire. The place stank of damp ashes along with the smells of hay and blood.

The gates to the stalls were all opened, and the corpses of three horses lay in congealed pools where the blood had not seeped into the straw. One of the three lay in its stall, the other two lolled grotesquely on the workshop floor. There were gashes and stab wounds all over their bodies, and there seemed no real way to escape the conclusion that the horses must have been tortured.

I am no great devotee of horses, but nonetheless my gorge rose at it. I grimaced, with a sudden thought of how my relatives of Rohan would react to the sight.

One of the two horses in the smithy had its back legs and haunches hacked off, along with most of one side, sliced off ribs and all. Cirion muttered, "Looks like our friends the Orcs have had a nice horse meat supper."

To our relief, the room to the right held no further corpses. It was a jumbled mess, with tables and benches overturned, and barrels, bags and boxes of foodstuffs wrenched open and scattered over the floor. I noticed that there were no wine barrels or bottles of any description, and surmised that the attackers must have been seeking something to wash down their horse steaks.

A strangled gasp sounded from the main room. I stepped back into the doorway and saw Svip and Holgar standing just inside the main door. Holgar's face was pale, but it was Svip who must have made that noise. He now stood staring at the massacred horses, with a look of sickened shock.

The water being turned abruptly and raced outside again. I hurried after him.

I more than half expected to find him losing his breakfast. But I did not, though as he stood with his arms wrapped around his chest, I could see his whole body trembling.

I crouched down beside him so my head was more or less level with his. I couldn't think what to say, so I just put my hand on his arm.

He turned his head to look at me. "It shouldn't bother me," he whispered. "It's not like I'm really a horse …"

Before I could answer, another bird call sounded its strident notes: the call to alarm.

Finn and Buslai, who had been kneeling in the road by the two corpses, scrambled to their feet and started running toward the stable. Holgar stepped out of the door, followed by Cirion an instant later.

Thorolf was racing toward us from the far edge of the trees. I stood, with my hand on my sword hilt.

We could see no one behind him – yet.

Thorolf Son of Eyjolf halted beside us. He hissed, "We've got to fall back. There's a camp of them ahead, in the woods. Couldn't get a good idea of the numbers; I'd hazard two hundred at least, at a guess. They're all over the place; looks like they're planning a long stay. We'll have to go around."

We nodded, and turned to head back across the road and into the trees.

Finn suddenly snarled out a comment that would not be repeatable in polite company. I was in entire agreement with him.

Hoof beats pounded toward us from the west, along the Lesser West Road.

It sounded like only a few horses at a gallop, but beyond that we could hear the sounds of a larger force on the move: creaking as of wagons, and the jangle of equipage or weaponry.

We could not yet see anything move along the road. Then a cloud of dust rose into view. The hoof beats were drawing closer, much faster than I cared to hear.

We could make a sprint for the trees, but they were far enough away that I didn't think we would all make it before the riders came in sight.

Captain Cirion growled another curse, then he spat out, "Into the stable! Now!"

All of us raced inside. If we hid in here we could find ourselves well and truly trapped, and I'm sure that all of us knew it. But it offered a better chance, however slim, than standing like fools on the road while who knew what army galloped toward us.

The faintest whisper of hope touched my mind that these hoof beats might herald the approach of Riders from Rohan. That instead of joining the Orcs that Thorolf had seen, they might be come to offer them battle.

If they were, well and good. We would join them. But it was not a chance I would risk any lives upon until we had seen who these riders were.

The ladder to the hay loft had burned and fallen. Perhaps half of it was left, but that was half the height needed to reach the loft.

Holgar was the first to find the alternate route. He seized hold of one of the stones in the wall that divided the living quarters and the stable, and began pulling himself upward. The stones were uneven enough to provide decent hand and foot holds, and soon Svip and then the rest of us were scrambling up after him, to the unburnt portion of the loft.

I followed last, tarrying below to break the fall if any should lose their hold. I noticed that two sturdy beams, apparently untouched by the fire, still supported the floor boards of that section. I only hoped they were sturdy enough to support all of us on top of it.

Two hay bales, against the wall, had escaped the fire. We dragged them out to form a screening wall, augmented with a few heaps of scattered, charred and sodden hay. These pitiable defences created a tiny refuge for us in the back corner of the surviving bit of loft. Lying on the floor we were effectively hidden, at least from below. There was a small, half-burned overhang of roof left above us, but it would not do much to shield us from above, should we encounter any foe like that demon of the air at which Legolas had shot.

Thus began one of the most grim and maddening days of my journey, that already held such a treasure house of grim and maddening days.

Hoofbeats and groaning wagons, and then the tread of a marching army, drew ever closer beneath us. With them came the rough cacophony of Orcish voices.

They drew beneath us, and then they surrounded us. And they remained.

We heard the neighing of a few horses, and the rolling creaks of the wagons came to a halt. Growled conversations by the hundreds sounded out beneath us, though in quieter tones than one would normally hear from an army of Orcs. Assorted thuds and rustles and clanks told that some of them were setting up tents. I heard the clatter of cookpots and utensils as well, but one thing was missing that would normally mark the scene: we smelled no new smoke from cooking fires.

Of course, I thought. That was why the burning stable had been doused. I had not been able to imagine any of our soldiers taking the time to bother with it if they were in the midst of combat with Orcs, and fire-fighting did not seem a usual Orc activity. But it should have been obvious. This close to Cair Andros, any burning building could easily have been spotted from the fortress. So too might the smoke from any cook fires. And even were it not, it was likely that scouts sent out from Cair Andros would see it or smell the fires, or both.

It took no great leap of logic to determine that these Orcs had their sights bent on taking the island fortress.

But they were not ready yet; perhaps not all of their expected forces had gathered. So they were settling in for a long wait.

And as long as they were, so were we.

To make our situation even more charming, a select few of them moved into the stable.

They must have been the officers of this particular regiment, taking the plum quarters for themselves. Some, from the sound of it, made themselves at home in the smaller room, and some set up camp below the loft, right beneath us.

It is still a wonder to me that we lived through that day.

The Orcs' sense of smell is keener than any Man's, and I expected them to nose us immediately. We owed our lives, I suppose, to an unusual handful of circumstances. The usual stable smells mixed with those of smoke, ashes, blood and rotting corpses, and the fact that Men had inhabited the building for centuries and presumably imbued it with our smell, must have combined to make them overlook any whiff of Man that reached them from the loft. If they noticed Svip's smell, they must not have recognised it. Then, too, the burned and fallen ladder, still lying on the floor, was an obvious if faulty indication that no one could be hiding above.

We lay there. And we waited.

I thought, _I must be under a curse_.

Of course, the fact that I'd been brought back to life might tend to weaken that theory. But perhaps it was just that Svip was outside of the curse's plan.

Whoever or whatever had cursed me must have been tickled pink with my death. Now that Svip had brought me back, perhaps it was taking a while to work up to another deathblow. In the meantime it had to content itself with taking a journey that should have lasted four days, and turning it into a fortnight.

Ten miles. We were ten miles from Cair Andros Fortress. Ten miles from being able to warn our Men, and all of Gondor, of the peril converging on our doorstep. And here we lay, with our noses in burnt, wet straw, half a score of feet above a bloody Orc army.

The straw made me think of all those times in the tales when the hero's hiding place is discovered because he has the misfortune to sneeze.

I should not have thought of it. The moment I did, I felt a tickling in my nose.

With a mighty effort, I resisted. It was a damned good thing, too, I told myself. If I gave us away by sneezing, the Orcs would not have time to slay me. I would have to kill myself, from the sheer ludicrous shame of it.

Someday, I hoped, I could regale Faramir with this story, over a few good bottles of wine. I would save it for some time when he was in a particularly miserable mood from fighting with our father. Then I would delve into my wine cellar, abduct Faramir from his rooms or his townhouse or the Steward's library, and launch into the tale of my journey from the Falls of Rauros and our lovely day with the Orcs.

It ought to do well at cheering him up. After all, the tale was supplied with some especially fine "Boromir makes a fool of himself" sequences.

The day crawled on at a crippled pace. With my usual pessimism, I began to wonder if the Orcs planned on staying here for weeks.

There were times when no Orc was within the stable. But we could still hear them right outside, and we dared not make a break for it.

Their voices were all around us. Their voices, and the everyday sounds of life in any encampment. If I tried, I could almost imagine that we were encamped with our own troops. Apart from the guttural snarls of the brutes' speech, and the stench that seemed to attach itself to the insides of my nostrils.

Buslai and Holgar occupied themselves by scraping away the mortar between two stones of the wall, to create an embrasure for spying on our foes. I noticed Cirion eyeing them frowningly, presumably keeping tabs on them to make sure that they didn't knock the stone out of the wall and onto some Orc's head.

No such disaster occurred, but the view we got through the spyhole, when we took turns crawling up to peer through it, was not encouraging. The number and variety of the tents set up without, made it look as though the Orcs were here for some gigantic town fair. This impression was added to by the wagons piled high with loot, glittering and colourful in the sunlight.

I could discern little of what was actually in those wagons. But the sight made me clench my fists hard enough to hurt, anger and nausea welling within me.

These Orcs had approached from the West. Their spoils might come either from our own lands or from Rohan; perhaps from both. Bright, gleaming fabrics, the glint of metal: each glimpse made me think of the houses that had likely been stripped for this plunder, and that might now be reduced to smouldering wreckage. And of the people who I could only hope had not been there, when the Orcs had made their raid.

That night brought us no more comfort than the day.

We partook sparingly of the bread and dried fruit we had with us, and as the darkness closed in we made attempts at sleep. For form's sake, we took turns on watch. But I doubt that my comrades got much more sleep than I did.

When I glanced around, in the moonlight pouring in on us through the ruined roof, I saw that most of them had their eyes still open and their faces set in weariness, worry and boredom. Only Holgar, with the resilience of youth, seemed to sleep away much of the night in relative ease.

It occurred to me that Holgar was the only one of my companions who I had never heard snore. The wakefulness of the others was likely due in part to the same thought that had come to me. I dreaded to let myself fall fully asleep, for to bring the foe down on us by snoring would be hardly less humiliating than doing so by sneezing. Theoretically, he who stood watch should be able to awaken any of us before our snoring got out of hand. But still, there was no telling what chance noise might be the one that would bring the enemy about our ears.

The Orcs, of course, suffered under no such restrictions. If I should find myself in some hell when I die again, I am certain it will involve an eternity of being denied my sleep while listening to Orcs snore.

Svip passed a worse night than any of the rest of us.

As the night drew in, I saw him fidgeting uncomfortably, ripping a blade of straw into tiny pieces. When I crawled closer to him, he looked around as if in embarrassment, and then hissed in my ear, "I've never slept outside of water."

We had with us no vessel or container large enough to fill with water and let Svip sleep in it, even had we combined the water from all of our various canteens. Finn had a bowl that we filled from my canteen and Holgar's, but it was only big enough for Svip to rest his hands in.

For a time he tried to sleep lying down in the straw, with his hands in the bowl. We had surrounded the bowl with straw, propping it in place so that Svip would not knock it over in his sleep and alert the Orcs to our presence. But the idea that Svip would sleep at all turned out to be wishful thinking.

Time and again I looked around at the scene outlined in the pallid moonlight. The jagged silhouette of the ruined roof against the sky, Holgar peacefully asleep, Cirion with his eyes determinedly closed, but tapping his fingers on his axe hilt, Buslai lying on his back and gazing up at the moon. Thorolf and Finn had their backs to me, and I could not see if they were awake or not. But I could see Svip lying there with his eyes open. After a while I realised that his entire body was shaking.

I crawled closer to him again, and mouthed the words, "Are you all right?"

He sat up, wrapping his wet hands around his knees and blinking at me. "Cold," he breathed.

This wouldn't do at all. There wasn't much that I could do for Svip, but at least I might be able to help him fight off the cold. I found for myself something resembling a comfortable position, leaning back against one of the bales of hay. I could not quite sit upright, or my head would protrude over the bale. I picked up the water bowl and gestured for Svip to come lie down on my lap.

He gave another embarrassed look, then he crept over and climbed onto my legs. There we spent the night, Svip stretched out over my thighs like an oversized lapdog. I kept one arm about him, and with the other hand I balanced the bowl on my knee, so he could keep his hands in it.

I do not think that he slept much. All through the night I could feel him shivering against me.

It made me think of the long ago nights of childhood, when Faramir climbed into my bed to sleep after a bad dream.

Or of the times when my son had fallen asleep in my arms. But that was a path that I decidedly did not want my thoughts to take.

With the dawn came no real change in our situation, only that all of us were colder, wearier, more racked with aches, and probably more ready to do something recklessly stupid to get ourselves out of this. At least I know that I was. I kept having to talk myself out of asinine plans of action that were certain to get us caught and make worthless everything through which we had already gone.

We could not stay here forever. Our basic plan, sketched out in the most hushed whispers, was to take advantage of the confusion when this force moved out again. We would leave as soon as it seemed possible to avoid capture, and outpace the Orcs if we could, hopefully reaching Cair Andros ahead of them.

But, I wondered, what if this force did not move out again? We still had to somehow make our way to the fortress. Even if these Orcs did not move on against our outposts, if they were being kept as a reserve, I was still sure that the main attacks were coming soon. This troop movement that we'd got ourselves stuck in was part of a pattern, that said as clearly as anyone could wish that the Nameless One was poised to launch his long-feared invasion. We had to get to Cair Andros and warn the garrison of what we had seen, whether these Orcs moved out or not.

How could we get out of here if the Orcs did not move?

There was one possible strategy which I could imagine, but I was disgusted with myself for even considering it.

Of all of us, Svip was theoretically the one with the best chance of getting through unseen. He was small enough that he might escape notice, and once out of the camp he could change into horse shape, both to make his escape the swifter and to hopefully convince any Orc who saw him that he was merely a runaway horse, not any kind of messenger.

But the plan was so fraught with peril and uncertainty, as to make it virtually a suicide mission.

Even if he got past the Orcs, what then? There would still be our Men to convince, if he made it to Cair Andros.

To be sure, Finn had his map-making supplies with him. I could use them to write a letter for Svip to take as his safe conduct, and to bear such information as we had on the Orcs' strategies and deployment.

But yet, there was a strong risk that our Men would not believe him, or believe any letter that he brought. For was I not known to be dead – and at the hands of the enemy? Even if I included my signet ring as part of the packet Svip bore, it might be seen as proof that the foes who slew me had stripped my corpse and taken my ring, to use in some ploy such as this.

We might, indeed, do better to have Cirion write the letter, and not yet introduce the concept of the Lord Boromir being back from the dead. But even then there was the same risk, that our Men seeing an unknown being such as Svip would assume him to be some vile creature of the Enemy. No matter what safe conduct he bore, it was more like that the garrison's Men and their commander would assume treachery, and either imprison Svip or slay him out of hand.

And there was another factor, that made me loathe to even contemplate such a plan.

If he were entirely himself, I might almost feel that I could ask Svip to risk it. He was clever and resourceful. If anyone could pull off this plan, he could.

But on this day, I feared for him, too much to suggest that he put himself at risk for Gondor. He was risking too much for us already.

He looked dreadful. As the morning light spread over our unhappy little band, I was shocked to realise how appalling Svip looked.

The usual grass green of his skin had taken on a greyish hue, like sage. He smiled when he saw me looking at him, and attempted to look his cheerful self. But when I put my hand on his forehead, it burned fever-hot.

_Damn it_, I thought. I might have to suggest to Svip that he follow my escape plan, just so he could get back to the River. I had no idea how bad this might get, if he remained away from the water. Presumably, he had no idea either, since he said he had never done this before. But if he was in this bad a shape after just one day, I dreaded to think what another day of it might do to him.

There was no indication that the Orcs had intentions of leaving. They sounded perfectly at home. Frequent loud-voiced arguments, occasional clanking sounds as they cleaned weapons and armour, the maddening snores of one of the officers camped beneath us – all seemed to mock us, to promise that we would be stuck up here forever.

Every time I glanced over at Svip, the fear and the guilt hammered harder at me.

I had to get him out of here. I could not let him be sacrificed to our cause. I could not let him perish because he had made the fatal mistake of helping me.

I eyed the sickly pallor of his face, and I sighed. It would probably take a good bit of arguing on my part to convince him to leave us. In which case, I had better get started.

The Orcs outside were getting louder, I thought. Either that, or I was just losing my mind.

No. There were definitely large numbers of them out there, starting to shout about something. To shout, and to beat their swords against their shields.

Maybe they were getting ready to move out, after all. But if not, I still faced the task of convincing Svip. I leaned over to him, to whisper my plan under the cover of the increased noise.

Of a sudden, a different note came into the Orcs' shouts. Some of them, I thought, some large number, must have fallen silent all at once. Those that still shouted tried to keep up the same raucous cheers as they had voiced before. But they failed. Their shouts held the unmistakable note of fear.

And then there came another sound. A long, piercing cry, cold and cruel. Distant, but at the same time horribly near, as if it sounded from the sky but also from inside my own mind.

Svip gasped, and I saw terror spring to life in his eyes.

I looked wildly around at our comrades, and saw the same panic and horror on their faces.

I recognised that cry, and that fear.

"Be silent!" I hissed. I spoke louder than I'd have dared to a moment before, but the shouts of the Orcs and the still-sounding echoes of the cry assured me that our neighbours below would not notice my words. "It will not take us if we do not let it. Only take courage. Do not speak and do not move."

The Rangers and Svip all kept their eyes fixed on me. Svip reached out and clutched my hand.

A wave of darkness passed over us, as if some monstrous shadow had swallowed up the sun.

Then the shadow was gone. But something had changed.

I noticed it more and more, as the day crept on.

One of my prayers, at least, had been answered. The Orcs were packing up their camp. Tents were coming down, equipment was being tossed into wagons, officers harangued their troops with new, biting force. I thought that I could hear extra scorn and virulence in their voices, and I supposed they were trying to make up for the fear that the shadow and the cry had called forth in them.

As the Orcs packed up, and we waited, I realised that some difference had come into the quality of the light.

No longer did we lie there in the familiar spring sunlight.

Gradually, almost too gradually to notice the change, the sky took on a bruised, lurid hue. I looked upward, and for some moments I just watched it, trying to comprehend this phenomenon that seemed different from anything I had seen.

I could not even be sure what colour it was. At times it seemed merely a cloud – unusually dark and heavy, perhaps, but a cloud like any other. Then it would change, and there would seem to be light visible through it – but light that changed from red to yellow and back again, as if the cloud were in fact made of smoke, and both the smoke and the flame were rolling in to devour us.

Slowly, the very air about us took on a reddish glare. The glare of a fiery, angry sunset. Or, I thought, the glare that I had always imagined one would see everywhere, if one ventured into Mordor.

Cirion crawled over to me, and hissed, "What the hell is going on up there?"

I shook my head and did not answer him. But I thought that I knew the answer.

The battle of which my father had spoken for as long as I could remember, was coming. The Dark Lord at last had all his forces arrayed, and he was throwing the dice to begin the final game.

_All of his forces?_ I wondered.

_No_, I prayed. _Not all of them_.

_Not the Ring_.

That last hour of waiting seemed, if anything, worse than all that went before. As the Orcs packed up their gear and received the shouted orders of their officers, it felt like waiting for my first battle. There was the same mocking anxiety, the same desperate eagerness to _do_ something, anything, to make the waiting cease. And there was the same knowledge that if I did what I wished, if I charged the enemy before the order came, I would bring all our carefully-laid plans to destruction.

At last the waiting ended. With a great din of protesting wagons and horses, grumbling foot soldiers and bellowing officers, the Orc regiment headed out.

The noise was fading into the trees when Finn announced that he could see no more Orcs through the spyhole. One by one, we made our cautious way down from the loft.

I half thought that some troops would have been left behind, and we would run into them the moment we crept from our rat hole. But the stable was empty of all save the corpses of the horses. Without, there were only the bodies of our two slain comrades. They were despoiled now of all of their clothing, and some of the Orcs had whiled away the time by carving obscene pictures into the pallid canvas of their backs.

I wished that we could stop to bury them, but it was all too plain that we did not have the time. And, I told myself, there would be many more of our Men lying unburied before this was over. All the more, perhaps, if we did not get to Cair Andros before this Orc advance.

With agonising caution, we made our way into the forest. Thorolf, it turned out, knew some of the Orcish language. He told us that they had moved out in three columns, moving abreast of each other through the woods. If we proceeded carefully enough, we should be able to keep ourselves between two of their columns, hopefully out of sight.

That journey through the trees lingers in my mind like a vision from some nightmare. The red, smoky light kept making me wonder if the damned fool Orcs had somehow set the woods afire. I almost wished that they had. It would certainly send a warning to our Men in the fortress. And the fire would be something tangible that we could combat, unlike this unnatural murky dusk advancing on us at the will of the Enemy.

We had deliberately picked the most uneven stretch of ground through those woods, a spine of rock thrust up from the earth, to ensure that our path would not be the same as those the Orc columns had taken. Keeping low to the ground, we jogged through rocks and the undergrowth. The raucous noise of the Orcs' progress sounded to right and left of us.

Once we must have strayed too close to the column on our left. From out of the trees, far nearer than I would have expected, came some Orcish shout that was evidently a question.

Automatically all of us froze. An instant later Cirion hissed for us to keep going. We marched onward, all of us gripping swords or axes or readying our bows.

As we walked, Thorolf yelled back a reply in the Orcs' own tongue.

Whatever he'd said, it seemed to satisfy our questioner. We heard barking laughs and a few jeering remarks, then some harsh command that presumably told the others to keep quiet.

No Orcs came rushing at us out of the trees. They marched on, and so did we.

I asked Thorolf later what had been said in that exchange. Our unseen questioner had demanded we identify ourselves, and Thorolf had graphically told him to mind his own business.

We hurried ahead, trying to unobtrusively move farther to our right. Without, of course, marching straight into the arms of the column on that side of us.

After our brush with the Orcs, we had stepped up our pace. I suddenly noticed that Svip was no longer beside me. He had been marching doggedly at my side, but now he was gone.

I turned to seek him, silently cursing myself. Svip and I were at the rear of our column. If he fell behind, there was little chance that any of the others would notice. How should they, when even I had not seen?

In the fiery twilight, at first I could not see him. The dark seemed thicker behind us. Trees, rocks and sky were vanishing together in a deep, fire-tinged fog.

A flicker of movement caught my eye. It seemed that an icy hand let loose its grip on my heart, when I realised that I saw Svip plodding along on our trail.

I scrambled back through the rocks to meet him, and knelt by his side.

He had been staring at his feet as he walked, and seemed to take some time to notice me. He stopped and bit his lip, and when he finally looked up at me I saw apology in his eyes.

I reached out and felt his forehead. It was burning hot again. I could not tell if his skin was that sickly sage green, for his face had the same crimson tinge of everything else in this foul false twilight.

When we first headed into the woods, Svip had been keeping up well. He had looked better, as well. Or at least I'd thought that he had, though now I wondered if I had only thought so because I wanted him to. I cursed myself once more for not keeping better track of him. And for getting him into this in the first place.

A bird-call whistle sounded ahead of us, inquiring our whereabouts. I whistled back, signalling that we were fine, and would follow. Then I turned back to Svip.

"Come on," I whispered to him. "I'll carry you."

He gazed at me miserably. "No," he began. "You shouldn't have to – "

"Don't be stupid. You've carried us when you're a horse. Now let me return the favour."

I scooped him up before he could protest further. Hastening after the others, I tried not to think of my fears for the frail, shivering creature in my arms.

The sky ahead still held light. In my imaginings it seemed that I could feel the dark behind us, as if the creeping twilight were peopled with thousands on thousands of eyes.

I reached the Rangers near the edge of the trees. They were crouched in the shelter of the rock ridge, all readying their bows.

"The Orcs have stopped, My Lord," Cirion reported in a whisper. They're not advancing past the trees. They've posted lookouts along the tree line. If it meets your approval, we'll take out the nearest two and make a run for it."

I nodded. Cautiously I set Svip down on the ground and handed him my canteen. He took a long drink from it, his hands shaking as he did so. Then Svip re-corked the canteen and clutched it in front of him, as if he could stop the trembling in his hands by just holding the canteen tightly enough.

I caught a worried glance from Holgar, who stared in dismay at Svip and then looked to me as if I could provide an answer. I could only shrug in reply. Hating myself for not seeing some way of helping Svip, I crept forward to the tree line to have a look at the ground ahead of us.

The forest ends two miles from Cair Andros. I think the tree cover would naturally become thinner at this place, for a gap in the hills here creates a wind tunnel that would stunt any tree's attempt to grow against the winds blowing through it. But ever since Cair Andros was fortified, one of the duties of its garrison has been to cut back the trees two miles from the island, denuding the area of potential hiding places for attackers.

The land that lay before us is blanketed in tall grasses. If we kept low enough it should be sufficient to conceal us. But there would still be danger when we made our first rush. The grass cover is broken in places near the forest, where stumps mark the handiwork of Men of Cair Andros, sent out on punishment detail to prune back the encroaching trees. Before we reached the thicker grass, the Orc lookouts would have ample opportunity to see us.

As I lay there, I could see the two nearest lookouts, perhaps a hundred yards apart. It took me a while to pinpoint their locations. One was standing with his back against a tree, his form blending in to the tree trunk in the gathering dark. The other took me longer to spot. He was seated, only his head visible above a wall of grass. I would not have seen him, I think, but that he was to the West of us, and in the West the sky was light. His head was outlined against a blue sky. It seemed impossible that blue sky could still exist, alongside the ruddy darkness that was seeping in upon us.

From our vantage points, the Orc lookouts and I could see Cair Andros, rising over the sea of grass. In the creeping dusk, the black rock of the island's cliff face faded into the dark. The walls of the fortress above seemed to stand in mid air, the unnatural fiery dark staining their white stone blood red. I could see the rearing waves where Anduin's current breaks on the black cliff, but they seemed stained like the fortress, bloody foam breaking against darkness.

The walls of Cair Andros give an easy view across the fields of grass to the edge of the woods. Even if they were to crawl the whole way, the Orc army would be spotted moving through the grasses, their columns showing from above like black snakes inching across the field.

The Orcs must know this as well as I did. That was why they had halted once again; they were waiting for full dark. And that dark might not be long in coming.

The sun was still high in the western sky. From its height there must be a good two hours before sunset. But the dark in the East seemed to promise that once the sun was gone, there would be no other light.

I crept back to my comrades.

"All right, My Lord?" Cirion asked. "Thorolf and I will take out the sentries. The rest of you head straight out, and we'll join you."

"Right," I agreed. The other three Rangers all had their bows at the ready as well, in case our plan should go awry. I wished there was something that I could do, but I was going to have my hands full with Svip. I could not afford to stop and fight. To get him out of this, as he deserved, I must resign myself and do nothing but run.

Svip handed me back my canteen, with a faint attempt at a smile. I re-fastened it to my belt, then held out my arms to him. "Ready?" I whispered. "Why don't you climb onto my back? It'll be easier if I've got my arms free. Right, just hang on to me. Sorry, it may jolt a bit."

His smile grew more determined. He whispered back, "Just don't drop me."

Keeping low, Cirion and Thorolf set out, Cirion heading to the left and Thorolf to the right. With Svip clinging to my neck and the others following just behind me, I scrambled back to the edge of the trees.

We waited to hear the twang of bow shots. They came almost in unison. I did not see either Orc fall, for my gaze had been fixed on the field ahead, studying the pattern of the stumps and reckoning the swiftest route into the thicker grass. The bows twanged, and several of my comrades hissed "Go!" or "Now!" And we ran.

From the right, behind us, sounded another bowshot. And the rustling crash of a body falling into the grass.

I lunged behind the minimal protection of a stump, trying to flatten myself enough to get Svip out of the line of fire. A glance to the right showed another Orc standing outlined against the sky, nocking an arrow to his bow.

In the same instant, Holgar, Finn and Buslai all fired. The Orc toppled. I could not be sure in the dusk, but I thought that I saw three arrows buried in his chest.

Cirion came racing up to us from the left, and a moment later Thorolf crawled out of the grass at our right. He clutched his right shoulder, trying to hold back with his hand the blood that seeped out around a black-feathered Orc arrow.

"Didn't see him," Thorolf gasped out bitterly. "He was sitting in the taller grass. Beyond the other. I didn't see him."

"Move your hand," Cirion hissed at him. As soon as Thorolf obeyed, Captain Cirion braced himself with one hand on Thorolf's collarbone, and with the other yanked the arrow out of his flesh. Blood welled from the wound.

It is always a wise course to let Orc arrow wounds bleed at the first, to help clean out the wound should the arrow prove poisoned. But now Thorolf protested, "Damn it, no! They'll be able to track us by the blood."

"Can't help that," Cirion muttered. "Let's get further away. We'll bind it when we're deeper into the field."

So we scrambled onward, into the ocean of grass.

There were no shouts behind us. No shouts, and no Orcs trampling into the grasses. I could scarce believe that even the fall of our third victim had gone unseen. But it seemed that it must be so.

We paused once to bind up Thorolf's shoulder, then we took up our half-crawling race through the grassland.

It was a strange couple of hours, scuttling along with no view of anything beyond grass and sky. I had ended up at the head of our party, which I rather wished I had not. The Rangers, I thought, must know some quieter and less obtrusive way of blazing a trail through this grass than I did – though I don't know what I expected them to be able to do, short of waving a magic wand and parting the grasses before us. At any rate, I had no magic wand and had to just plough my way through, trying my best not to let the grass blades stab me in the eyes.

I was at least able to navigate fairly easily, just by keeping the looming clouds to the left of us, and the embattled patch of blue sky to the right. The low roar of Anduin provided another guide, though even had we been walking upright through the field we would not have seen the River at most times, cutting as it does far below the bank at this point.

Occasionally I asked Svip to look above the grass to check our progress. I would pause while he scrambled up higher, balancing his weight on my shoulders until he could get a glimpse of the island fortress and tell me how far to the right of us it was.

"We'll get you to the water soon, Svip," I whispered to him as I crawled on after one of these pauses to get our bearings. "We probably shouldn't risk it till we're across to the island. But the island's got a good harbour. There's lots of sheltered areas where you should be able to sleep. We'll have you there soon."

He nodded, his fingers digging deeper into my neck at the mention of water.

The air seemed unseasonably hot. I noticed it more and more, as I had to swipe my sweat-damp hair away from my eyes with increasing frequency. If it was this warm already in North Anórien, I thought that they must be stifling in the City. I wondered if the wealthier citizens' migration to their summer homes in the mountains would begin earlier than usual this year. Then I recalled that since this year the warm weather was accompanied by the threat of invasion, then yes, it had probably begun already.

The rich smells of damp earth and spring wildflowers hung heavy about us. I caught the occasional whiff of a fox, and heard abrupt rustlings in the grass as the foxes and other denizens of the field fled our approach.

Beyond that, there was nothing to hear but the murmur of the River and the sound of our own passage. It took me some time to realise why that seemed so strange.

There was no wind. It was probably the first time I had set foot on this plain without there being at least some wind blowing, from somewhere. The Cair Andros garrison had nicknamed this field Wind Battle Plain. It is noted as much for the force with which the East Wind comes raging over it from across the River, as for the strength and violence of the West Wind, that charges through the gap in the hills after racing over the plains of Rohan. At Cair Andros, Men joked that our wind was battling it out with Sauron's.

Yet now there was no wind at all. I'd have thought that the East Wind would be in the ascendant, since this damned fiery cloud was rolling in from the East. But however that fog was moving, it apparently did so with no aid from the wind. The air in Wind Battle Plain hung oppressive and still, pressing down on us with suffocating closeness.

It was, I thought, the proverbial calm before the storm. Only when those clouds broke over our heads, they would bring not water but fire.

We were close enough now to see the island and its fortress looming over the grass. The black cliff was visible again at the fortress' base. Glints of light from the sinking sun flickered off veins of minerals in the dark rock. We could hear the waves splash as they broke on the long island's prow, and hear the hollow boom as water rushed through the cavern beneath the black cliff.

I wondered when the soldiers on Cair Andros' walls would notice our approach. For notice it they must. We might not be as obvious as an Orc army crawling through the grass, but we would still stand out, even through this fast descending dusk.

We had best make ourselves identifiable as a band of Men before we came within arrow shot of the walls.

I called a halt when our path was crossed by our old acquaintance the Lesser West Road.

In older days the Road led to a ferry crossing just south of Cair Andros, and merged with the Ithilien Road upon the farther bank. There was still a ferry at Cair Andros now, but it journeyed only from the west shore to the fortress island, and back again. The ferry keeper was also the officer of the guard house on this shore.

I stayed crouching at the edge of the road for a moment, then turned to the Rangers. "If no Orcs have slain us yet," I said, "they are not likely to for this evening. Let us complete our approach like Men. We've a lot better chance of avoiding being shot by our comrades, if we walk to their door as Men who have nothing to fear."

The others nodded their agreement. We unfolded ourselves from our crouching positions and stepped forth onto the road.

I felt ludicrously exposed to be standing up after our long crawl. Trying to ignore the creeping sensation in my spine, I strode on with Svip on my back, as though I did not half expect that there'd be arrows ploughing into us at any instant.

The road curves to follow along the edge of the riverbank cliff. We were close enough now to see the silhouettes of Men outlined on the fortress walls. And to see the signal fire that gleamed from the West Turret, announcing our approach to the keepers of the guard house on this shore.

Directly opposite the centre point of the fortress, the two storey stone guard house stands on the west side of the road. Across the road, stairs carved into the cliff lead down to the ferry crossing.

The guard house loomed darkly to our right, standing mostly in shadow. I could see lamplight in the lower windows. In an upper window, that seemed otherwise unlit, a spear of light from the falling sun shone like a beacon, piercing through the building from another window on the farther side.

As we neared the guard house, I stepped aside to let Cirion walk ahead of me. He, at least, was expected. And the sight of him should be less unnerving than that of the Steward's dead Heir, emerging from the red dusk with some unknown creature on his back.

The lamplight that gleamed in the guard house windows was suddenly extinguished. It was almost too dark to be sure, but I thought that I saw the door open, and at least three figures of the height of Men slip swiftly out from the building.

"Come no further! Identify yourselves!" a voice rang out in challenge from the shadows of the guard house.

The Rangers and I halted. Cirion's voice came back brusquely, "I identify myself as Cirion Son of Angantyr, Captain of the Anórien Rangers. And if you do not recognise my voice, Lieutenant Ostoher Son of Ornendil, then the Nameless One has either made off with your hearing or your wits."

"He has not made off with your sense of humour, Ranger," was Ostoher's rueful answer. "Hail and well met; we had nearly given up hope for you."

Cirion snorted. "You'd have given it up entirely if you could have seen us." He stepped closer to the Guard officer and spoke in a tone too low for me to discern the words. Most like, he was breaking the news of the two companions the Rangers had picked up on their travels.

One of those companions now hissed to the other, "Put me down."

I obeyed, setting Svip down beside me on the road. I smiled as I saw him straighten his tunic and stand as tall as he could. I thought, _If Svip still has his pride, then perhaps he will live through this, after all_.

Gasps and startled exclamations sounded from the Men standing by the guard house, then were hastily silenced. Lieutenant Ostoher spoke again, a shade too loudly and boisterously to hide his confusion, "Ho there, within! Get those lamps lit, will you? It's enough that we have to go stumbling about in this murk; we needn't be breaking our legs on our own furniture!"

Light flickered to life again through the windows and the open doorway. The Rangers, except for Cirion, all stood near me, and they glanced at me now with various sympathetic expressions. I suppose that a truly grim scowl must have settled on my face, as I contemplated the number of people to whom I would have to explain how I happened to be alive.

"After you, My Lord," Thorolf said.

_Oh__, well_, I thought. At least I was starting out with smaller numbers. First Cirion and his Men, and now the Cair Andros Garrison, before working up to Minas Tirith.

And really, I told myself, there wasn't any point in explaining it more than a few times, anyhow. If I kept explaining, I'd have time for nothing else. Perhaps I should write up a statement, and have my seneschal distribute copies to anyone who inquired about it.

"All right, Svip?" I asked quietly. He nodded, and together we walked to the guard house, the Rangers falling into step behind us.

Lieutenant Ostoher stepped forward to meet us, and bowed. "Welcome to Cair Andros, My Lord," he said. Even in that dim light, I could see that his eyes had gone as wide as daymeal plates. But he was doing pretty well, I thought, for someone who's just had to greet a Man that all know to be dead.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. It's good to be back. This is Svip of Anduin, a comrade in arms."

Ostoher bowed again, to Svip. After the shock of seeing me, the little green water being was clearly a sight that he could take in his stride.

"Let us go inside," I said. "We make fine targets out here."

We walked into the common room of the guard house, and I continued, ignoring the flabbergasted stares aimed in my direction.

"We're facing attack," I said without ceremony. "If not tonight, then tomorrow at the latest. We won't be able to hold the shore. Lieutenant, send two of your Men to take the ferry across to the harbour. I'll inform your commander of the situation and advise that he order the rest of you back to the fortress. But should the attack come before you receive the order, I expect you to have sense enough to retreat. Don't wait for orders. At the first sign of danger you are to make for the island with all the speed you can."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Good. I'll see you at the island." With no further delay, I headed for the stone slab in the fireplace that guards the entrance to the passage under the River. If I demonstrated that I knew how to get into the passage, I thought, perhaps it would help convince the Lieutenant that I was whom I seemed. Although that strategy had not worked spectacularly well with Cirion at Lilla Howe.

The slab pivoted open, and I lit the torch in its bracket just within the passage. The lit torch I handed to Cirion, and I crouched down beside Svip.

"With your permission, Svip," I said, "I'll carry you again. Some of the footing in the passage is treacherous; we're familiar with it and you are not."

He nodded and scrambled onto my back. I stood, affecting not to notice that several of our soldiers were gaping at us and bidding fair to dislocate their jaws.

Cirion walked into the passage first, followed by me and then by the rest of the Rangers. We descended the stone stairs into blackness – four hundred and seventy four stairs, as I knew from having counted them when I was there during the Cair Andros Campaign in my fifteenth year. The passage then runs level under the River for another three hundred paces or so, though I have not counted them again since that year, and I still had a bit of growing left to do when I was fifteen. It might be a few paces fewer for me, now.

Our path took us upward again, up the matching set of stairs in the island – only three hundred and sixteen stairs on this side, if I remembered my count correctly. With our comrades ranged behind us on the steps, Svip and I waited on the narrow stone landing while Cirion placed the torch in one of the empty brackets and then heaved on the thick wooden door.

We emerged into an evening that seemed to have grown even grimmer with cloud and fire. As we stepped from the passageway into the outer courtyard of the fortress, the gate of the inner wall creaked open and ten Men strode through toward us.

I set Svip down again, and we waited as they approached.

Lieutenant Ostoher would have signalled that we were taking the passage, but he'd have had no way of signalling that the slain Captain-General of Gondor was among our party. I sighed, resigning myself to another performance of the popular comedy "Captain Boromir Returns from the Dead."

The Men halted before us, and I recognised the commander of the Cair Andros garrison at their head. He began, "Cirion, we'd all but given you up – "

Then he noticed me.

He gasped out, "My Lord Boromir!"

Seldom in my life have I seen anyone so profoundly shocked as was Captain Eradan Son of Ciryandil. He took a step backward and for a moment actually swayed on his feet as if he were about to fall.

I had never seen Eradan so shaken, and I have known him since he was brought to Court as a playmate for my brother when they were five years old. I have cleaned up plenty of his scratches, scrapes and bloody noses, I provided an alibi for him and my brother when they broke off a limb of the White Tree by swinging on it, and I held him off for an hour at swordpoint when I was guarding Faramir and Eoflæd's bedchamber against friendly intrusions on their wedding night. I was also Eradan's commanding officer the first time he saw combat, I saw him slay his first Orcs, and I held him while he threw his guts up afterwards.

But I had never seen him look as stunned and horrified as he did now.

Without thinking about it I reached out and grabbed Eradan's shoulder to steady him. He stared at my hand on his shoulder, then gazed long and hard into my face. He shuddered, then he swallowed and pulled himself together.

"I really am here, Eradan," I told him. "It's all right, I'm not a ghost."

He attempted an apologetic smile. "Your brother was just here, My Lord," he said, managing to keep his voice steady. "He told me of the dream he'd had of you – and I thought – " He paused, then the words rushed out, "I thought that was why you were appearing to me, My Lord. I thought I must be having one of his visions."

I nodded. I could sympathise with that thought. It was the sort of thing I'd been thinking all too frequently myself. Then the full import of Eradan's words came home to me.

"Faramir was here?" I demanded, a surge of hope stabbing through me. "How long ago?"

"He left not two hours since. He and three of his Men from the Ithilien garrisons took horse from the guard house after we spotted that cloud rolling in. He rides to the City, to warn the lord your father. The rest of his troops just embarked by boat for Osgiliath, scarce an hour ago."

I nearly cursed, for a multitude of reasons. I wanted to race back through the tunnel, requisition whatever horses Faramir might have left at the guard house stables, and set out after him with all possible speed. To have missed him by only two hours, to know that he had probably been standing here on the walls of Cair Andros while I was inching my way across Wind Battle Plain …

But at least I knew for certain that he was alive. Or he had been, two hours past.

I wished that I could recall Faramir's Men who were now on their way to Osgiliath, as well. It was frustrating beyond words, to think of those troops that might have helped us hold the island, lost to us by only an hour. But no, I told myself, I must think about this rationally. Whether we had the Ithilien troops or not, there was scant likelihood that Cair Andros could hold back the enemy longer than a few days at the most. Whatever became of us here, Osgiliath would face the advancing tide eventually. Faramir's Men might just as well make their stand at Osgiliath, as here at Cair Andros.

There was little doubt that the same fate would overtake us all.

"We need a council of war," I said to Eradan. "We've a lot of plans to make and not much time. But forgive me, there's another matter I must tend to first." I turned to young Holgar, standing with the other Rangers at a respectful distance behind me. "Holgar. Have you any duties that require your attention now?"

Holgar cast a hesitant glance at his Captain, and Cirion answered, "Not at the moment, My Lord. My Men have leave until tomorrow – or until they are needed."

"Then, Holgar, will you escort Svip to the harbour? Help him find a safe place to sleep, and see that he has whatever he may require?"

The young Ranger's face broke into a smile. "Very willingly, My Lord." He knelt beside Svip. "I'd be honoured to carry you, Svip, if you'll allow it."

Svip hesitated, then looked up at me. "You'll send for me if something happens?" he asked. "I don't want to miss anything."

"I'll send for you," I told him. "I swear it."

He held my gaze for another moment, as though trying to read in my face whether I meant it. Then he nodded and turned away, holding out his arms for Holgar to lift him up.

The two of them set off across the courtyard, to the Great Stairs that lead down the slope of the island all the way to the harbour. I caught a peculiar expression on Captain Eradan's face as I turned back to him, suggesting he was unsure whether to burst out laughing or to seriously fear for his sanity.

"I'll explain everything," I said. "But we don't have time."

Our party divided up further. Cirion took charge of Finn's pack of maps, sent Finn and Buslai to the barracks with the firm command that they get some sleep, and ordered Thorolf to have his shoulder wound looked at by the healer immediately. Cirion, Eradan and I made our way to Eradan's council chamber, a long, windowless room in the second level of the fortress wall.

Eradan sat at the table we had strewn with maps, listening in solemn silence as Cirion and I outlined our observations of the Orc army. Cirion stood leaning on the table, while I spent most of that council of war pacing about the room.

The garrison's scouts had brought back word of increasing enemy activity, up until two days before. But since then, no scout sent north from the fortress had returned, nor had there been word from any of our other outposts throughout North Anórien.

The most recent news that Eradan had was of developments across the River, in Ithilien. My brother's troops had won a battle there against the Men of Harad, near our refuge of Henneth Annûn. That also had been two days ago. It was a victory, and a worthy one, yet the forces of the Enemy massing across the Ephel Dúath were deemed too great to make it worthwhile holding the Ithilien frontier.

It was the right decision, I thought; the only one that could have been made now, considering the insufficient manpower of our Ithilien garrisons. We simply did not have the numbers to hold such extended front lines.

Yet I knew how it must have hurt my brother to leave Ithilien to the ravages of our foe. I have heard him speak often enough of the beauties of Ithilien, of its flowered woodlands and hidden streams and the way that the sun and the moon shine through the waterfall at Henneth Annûn. I knew that his soul must have bled when he turned his back on that land, knowing that the Nameless One would crush it into the lifeless desolation of Mordor.

Then, too, came the question: if we kept drawing back, tightening our frontiers, when would it stop? When would we come to the point where we could withdraw no further?

I believed I knew the answer to that, as I was sure Faramir knew it as well.

Our actions made sense. It was the logical choice to make a strategic retreat, in Ithilien as here in Anórien. We did not have the manpower to hold our scattered outposts. We had to withdraw our troops to one strong, defensible location, rather than losing our Men one by one as we fought for every inch of territory.

But yet I knew, as Faramir must know, where it would end.

We would never have enough Men. We would keep pulling back, until we reached the walls of Minas Tirith. Until we reached the place where we could retreat no longer.

_No_, I thought. Perhaps we yet had time. Perhaps if my father sent enough troops to Osgiliath, we might yet hold them there. Or failing that, on the causeway of Rammas Echor. But after that – after that there was nothing. Nothing left to stand between the Enemy and our City.

"How many Men have we here?" I asked Captain Eradan.

"Two hundred and fourteen fit for active duty – two hundred and fifteen including you, My Lord. Though it may be one less, if the healer thinks badly of Thorolf's wound. Another thirty-seven in the House of Healing – most of those are wounded that Lord Faramir left here, from his battle in Ithilien."

Cirion spoke up, "We saw at least five hundred in the force we passed through, that we left at the forest's edge. Another eight hundred, roughly, that we spotted throughout our mission, passing through the Sunland in scattered, smaller forces. They may not all be aiming here, some may be heading for Osgiliath, but yet …"

Eradan added, "There is word also of huge numbers massing at the Black Gate, as well as Minas Morgul. We have no reliable figures for them, yet reckoning the forces of Southrons that were observed moving north … and the Orcs of Mordor that we have no means of reckoning …" He threw his hands up in a gesture of despair, then he drew in a breath and went on in calm, flat tones. "I think we may guess fifty thousand, My Lord, and not be guilty of over-estimating. As to how much of an under-estimate it may be, that we will not know until we see them. Nor can we know how many may strike at Cair Andros. The majority of them may be bound for Osgiliath, or …" He smiled grimly and shook his head.

"Or," I continued, smiling back at him, "we may wake up tomorrow and find them camped on our doorstep."

The sudden, unexpected thought occurred to me that Eradan looked older than he had the last time I had seen him, perhaps a year and a half ago. His face seemed more lined and worn, and his blond hair, the legacy of his Rohirrim grandmother, seemed to have taken on a trace of grey – though perhaps, I told myself, that was only the effect of the candlelight.

I stood gripping the edge of the table with one hand, studying Cirion and Eradan's faces and seeing in them the same knowledge of our hopelessness as had struck home to me.

Yet even without hope, I told myself, much may be done.

"We will hold the island as long as we can," I told them. "For as long as we can delay the enemy here, we will, until it is clear that the fortress will soon fall. Then we will retreat to Osgiliath, and hopefully be in time to do some good there."

Eradan and Cirion nodded.

I asked Eradan, "Have you any messengers left here that you think would have a chance to reach Minas Tirith? We should send my father and the Council such information as we have, both of our position here and of the findings of Cirion's party."

"Yes, My Lord. Aleksei Son of Ohtar is the best that we have. He will make it through safely, if anyone can."

"Good. Then both of you, prepare such materials as you think should be sent. If someone will lend me paper, pen and ink, I will inform my father of our position."

Eradan led me to his office, adjacent to the council chamber. His writing desk was generously supplied with all the necessary items, including a silver ink well and a vinescroll engraved pen, both of which I remembered had been gifts to him from Faramir.

"If you'll excuse me then, My Lord," Eradan said, "I will inform Aleksei of his assignment."

"Yes. Go." As he turned to leave, I called after him. "What's the date?"

He blinked in surprise. "The Tenth of March," he replied.

_The Tenth of March_, I thought. _Then it truly is eight months, since I set out seeking for Imladris. Eight months that I was away, while our country tottered toward its ruin_.

"Do you need anything else, My Lord?" he asked.

"No, nothing. Eradan – I'm sorry about the fright I gave you earlier."

He smiled. "It's all right, My Lord. I'd rather have had the fright than not have you here."

He bowed and made his departure. Before he was fully out of the door I had dipped the pen in the ink well and was writing swiftly, "_At Cair Andros, Tenth Day of March, one hour past sunset._" Or at least, I suppose that was the time, though with that damned murk outside, it was hard to tell. I then launched into the salutation that I had penned so many times over the years, I could have written it in my sleep: "_To My Noble Lord and Father, Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Greeting!_"

Here I paused, uncertain of how to proceed.

The letter that I'd written a few days ago was presumably still sitting on a shelf at Lilla Howe. Even if any messenger had been passing through the area and picked up the letter and dispatches, there was little chance that he would have made it through the enemy's advance. That letter was so much wasted effort, and I would just have to start again.

I grimaced at the tauntingly empty sheet of paper.

I loathed to think of what it would be like for my father, receiving a letter from his purportedly dead son. Although I had no doubt that the old Man's constitution could withstand it. At least the shock would hopefully be a pleasant one.

One thing was certain: My Noble Lord and Father must be hopping mad that I'd been away for eight months in the midst of a war, and I hadn't even sent him word of my whereabouts.

Not to mention losing the Horn of Gondor, and no doubt multiple other failings that I'd forgotten about by now, but of which My Noble Lord would be certain to remind me.

I should probably count myself lucky that I was several decades too old for him to give me a thrashing.

I shook my head, replenished my ink, and wrote.

"_I send my apologies for my extended absence. My part in the mission that took me from our realm has ended, and I am returning to Minas Tirith with all practicable haste. I arrived at Cair Andros two hours past, travelling with the Ranger Captain Cirion Son of Angantyr and four others of his company, and a comrade of mine from beyond Gondor's borders._

_"For the last two days of our journey, we made our way through a force of Orcs numbering around five hundred, that appears aimed for Cair Andros. We expect the attack no later than tomorrow. We will hold them here as long as possible. When the fortress can no longer be held, we will retreat to Osgiliath._

_"My Lord, I respectfully ask that you send whatever troops we have available, to reinforce the Osgiliath garrison. I believe there is every chance that we can turn the Enemy back at Osgiliath, as we have before. But only if we have Men enough to constitute a defence, not a sacrifice. _

"_The dispatches that this letter accompanies detail the observations of this garrison's Rangers, of enemy movements in this region. In my own journey by boat from Rauros I have seen enemy troops along nearly every league of the eastern shore. In smaller numbers, but numerous enough to cause the gravest concern, their troops have penetrated to the west shores as well. The groups that I have seen on both shores were relatively small, until the force that we encountered in these last days. But it is evident that their master is calling them together. When these groups are united, they will constitute a force such as has not been levelled against our country during any of our lifetimes_.

_"You will recall the apparent new breed of Orcs __of which we spoke after last summer's battle at Osgiliath. My recent travels have brought me into further contact with them. They are indeed hardier and more skilled than the Orcs we have encountered in the past, and they seem impervious to sunlight. I know not how many of these new Orcs our Enemy may command, but we must be aware that they may turn the tide of combat in his favour_.

"_These next intelligences may already have reached you, but I feel it my duty to mention another aspect of the threat against us. Saruman of the White Hand has allied himself to the power in the East, and seeks to undermine our alliance with Rohan. I have reason to believe that he sent forth a troop of Orcs that ambushed my company north of Rauros, and I have no doubt that the Lord Saruman is behind the attacks upon our Rohirrim kinsmen._

"_On more personal matters: for much of my journey south I travelled in company with seven others, from whom I was separated by mischance at Rauros. If any of them should pass into our land, I ask that you extend every courtesy and give them whatever assistance may lie within our power."_

I paused, contemplating in what order I would list my former comrades. Even I had to admit that Aragorn had become the leader of our expedition after Gandalf's death, but I was cursed if I was going to accord him the dignity of listing him first in a letter to my father.

I should start with Legolas, I decided. Aragorn might have a claim to the kingship of Gondor, but Legolas was a prince of unquestioned title. So I wrote:

"_These comrades are: the Elven prince Legolas, son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood; the Dwarf Gimli Son of Gloin, of Erebor; a Ranger of the North called Aragorn son of Arathorn, known to some as Strider _…"

I stopped again, wracking my brain to remember Frodo's family name. I knew that I had heard it, but try as I might, I could not conjure it up. Well, I did remember his father's name; that would have to do. I wrote again:

"… _and four halflings, of a race that call themselves Hobbits, from the far Northwest: Frodo Son of Drogo; his servant Samwise Gamgee; Meriadoc Brandybuck; and Peregrin Took_. _All seven have proved themselves worthy and noble companions, and true friends of Gondor_."

That might be stretching it a bit as regarded Aragorn, I thought. Blast it, I hoped he wouldn't do something stupid, when and if he reached Minas Tirith. Heaven alone knew what would happen if Aragorn should declare himself King of Gondor in the midst of a battle, or some other such lunacy. My father, I knew, would not be inclined to accept that claim without proof, nor would his temper easily brook Aragorn's pretensions.

I sighed, my mood growing ever more grim as I thought of it. I did not believe that Father would allow a civil war to break out while we fought for our nation's survival – nor would Aragorn, for that matter. But I devoutly hoped that I would have a chance to speak with my father and warn him of this claimant to Gondor's throne, before the self-proclaimed king appeared on his doorstep.

I shook my head, with another frustrated sigh. I should wrap this up, but I knew I must give some explanation for the stories of my death. Frowning at the paper, I wrote:

"_I am informed that you have heard rumours of my death, and I apologise for any grief these rumours have caused you. It may be that reports have reached you either from my above-named comrades or through others whom they have encountered on their journey, stating that I was slain above the Falls of Rauros. I assure you that these reports were made with no intent to deceive. I was separated from my companions under such circumstances that they could not choose but believe me dead. No blame falls to them in this. We were all sorely outnumbered and all fought bravely, but I must wait until I see you again before I explain these circumstances fully_. _My peril was great, but I assure you I live yet, and I look forward to the day when I may present my respects to you in person._

_"I remain your devoted and obedient son, Boromir, Captain of the White Tower."_

I heaved another sigh, scowling down at the letter. Of a sudden it looked phenomenally unconvincing to me. My father's first thought, I was sure, would be that it was a forgery by some foe, who sought to control the Steward's actions by bringing false word that his son and heir still lived. I could hope that my father would be convinced when he recognised my handwriting. But if I knew him, he would never entirely believe it until he beheld me with his own eyes.

I just had to hope he would act upon the reinforcement of Osgiliath, regardless. If it should prove that he sent no troops to their support, because he suspected my letter as a false report designed to lure our forces from where they were truly needed …

For a moment I nearly tore up the letter, in my fear that it would prove the doom of us all. But I had to hope that my father's love for me would outweigh his suspicion. And for that love, I owed him word that I lived. I only prayed that my letter would not do more harm than good.

I folded the letter and closed it with a dollop of sealing wax. As usual I used more force than necessary pressing my signet ring into the wax, and droplets of it spattered across the paper.

I sighed in exasperation, then I had to smile as I thought of it. Perhaps this, at least, would convince my father that the letter was genuine. Splattering wax by jamming my ring down too hard has long been a failing of mine, and the untidiness it creates always drove my father up a tree.

As I stood up from the writing desk, Eradan returned. He was accompanied by the messenger Aleksei, a dark, reed-thin Man whom I vaguely remembered meeting a time or two before, when he had brought dispatches to my father.

Word of my miraculous return must already have spread though the fortress, or else Eradan had warned him. The messenger answered my greeting with a courtly bow and a hearty "Welcome back, My Lord," and managed to avoid looking like he'd seen a ghost.

The night seemed impossibly black, as Eradan and I walked with Aleksei outside the fortress, to the door of the passage. As we wished him farewell and the Valar's speed, I noticed that the sky held no trace of stars. Of stars, or moon, or anything but the enshrouding blackness.

The door thudded closed behind our messenger.

"I gave him the order for Lieutenant Ostoher," Eradan told me, "to abandon the guard house at once. We're moving our siege engines into place along the wall, so we can destroy the guard house if the enemy attempt to shelter in it." He sighed, staring up at the sky. "I've just given orders that the beacon on the North Turret be lit. It will throw at least some light upon the shore. Though if they strike tonight, we still will scarce see them before they're upon us."

For some hours of that death-black evening, I accompanied Eradan on his rounds of the fortress, inspecting our defences. The north beacon blazed up, adding its light to that of the torches along the walls. Yet the light seemed to be swallowed up, as if the world itself simply stopped and all about us was black nothingness.

The beacon fire atop the North Turret cast a hint of illumination over the rippling dark of the River, and for perhaps a few yards along the bank on either side. But Eradan was right; the Orcs could just about be building pontoons across the water and scrambling up the fortress walls, before ever we saw them. We were fortunate, I thought, that Orcs are not known for their skills at maintaining silence. We might not see them, but we were bound to hear them.

It was past the fort's regular meal hours when we finished our tour of inspection, so Eradan and I raided the kitchens. Eradan took his bowl of stew back to his office with him, but I remained in the long, low kitchen building at the centre of the inner courtyard, chatting with the Chief Cook and his assistants while wolfing down several large helpings of their cooking.

That chicken and barley stew and the fresh-baked bread seemed the first real food I'd had in I could not say how long – the first that was not dried stores, raw fish and water plants, or the airy offerings of the Elves.

The cooks were busy baking the next day's bread. One of the assistants, a lad of fourteen or thereabouts, asked me about my journey, so while they worked, I regaled them with descriptions of Caradhras, Moria, the Argonath, and the Anduin Marshes. I did not speak of death or my return from it, and they did not ask. Though the eyes of the young assistants seemed very wide when they looked at me, which may, I suppose, have had something to do with my coming back from the dead.

I filled two more bowls with stew and another bowl with apples, and grabbed a couple of loaves of the bread, assuring my long-suffering friends the cooks that it was not all for me. The youngest assistant volunteered to help me carry the food. We set out together, leaving the fortress proper and heading down the broad white steps to the southern end of the island, toward the harbour.

The boy asked me if I'd found any halflings on my voyage, so as we walked I told him what little I knew of the land, habits and history of the Hobbits.

We found Svip and Holgar near the harbour guard house, both fast asleep. Svip was in the water, bobbing peacefully with his head resting on an inflated leather buoy tied to a bollard on the quayside. Nearby lay Holgar, on a folding cot that I supposed had been loaned to him by the harbour guard.

Holgar awoke at the smell of stew. I sent the cook's assistant back to work, and Holgar and I sat on the stone quay while Holgar ate. We watched our sleeping comrade and the twin beacons of the harbour towers, two more bastions of light against the all-encompassing blackness.

"You should go up to the barracks," I whispered, as Holgar finished eating and lay back on the quay, frowning up into the inky sky. "Get a night's sleep in a real bed, for a change. I'll stay with Svip."

"No, sir," Holgar whispered back, sitting up again. "I'll stay here; I don't mind. You've been away from real beds longer than I have."

We debated it for a few moments, before I ended the discussion with the compromise that we would both stay. Holgar ran to fetch another cot and more blankets from the Harbour Master. I sat there staring at the sky and wishing I could make even one star appear out of that mocking emptiness.

Holgar reappeared with the cot, one of the harbour guards following with a huge stack of blankets. He must have thought this sleeping arrangement singularly odd, but he did not voice any question. I suppose that as the second-highest ranking Man in the kingdom, I have always been allowed a few eccentricities. And as a Man who had died and returned, I had probably earned a few more.

I fell asleep swiftly, to the lapping of water on the quay, the soft wheeze of Svip's snoring, and the familiar dull roar of the River.

At some point in that brief night, I started to dream.

I dreamed of Faramir. I saw him riding alone in the sun-dappled woods of Ithilien. He halted to let his horse drink from a stream. As the horse guzzled thirstily, I saw Faramir sit up straighter in his saddle, his eyes betraying the sudden tension that he did not let the rest of his body show. Moving slowly and casually, as if he were making some minor adjustment to his saddle-girth, he reached toward his sword that hung strapped to the saddle.

Six massive Orcs stepped from the woods behind Faramir. Their swarthy faces gleamed with sweat, their drawn swords flashed in the sunlight, and their leather breastplates were decorated with swirling patterns and handprints in what appeared to be blood.

They were grinning as they regarded my brother; grinning as if he were a toy with which they would enjoy playing, or some tender morsel they were about to devour.

Faramir's horse raised its head, snorting in fear. But his calming hand on its neck kept it under control. The Orcs began strolling toward the stream.

Faramir slipped his sword free of its scabbard. He wheeled his steed around so swiftly that the Orcs recoiled in surprise. Brandishing his sword and keeping low over the horse's neck, Faramir charged the Orcs. He shouted, "Gondor!"

Then the dream changed. The scene was now the Pelennor, before the walls of Minas Tirith. The daylight was marred by the same murky cloud as we'd seen spread from across the River, now blocking the entire sky. Thick, brownish haze hung over everything, imparting a twilight tinge to the world. My City yet stood bravely, but the white walls were tinted a sickly yellow, and the spire of the Tower of Ecthelion vanished into that haze.

As I watched, five horsemen emerged from the fog, galloping toward the City. And suddenly the day grew darker still. Black shapes that were not clouds dove out of the sky, swooping low at the horsemen. There were five of them, one for each of the Men. Again and again they dove and then launched into the air again. They circled the horsemen, taunting them, driving their horses mad.

A cry broke forth from the filthy sky. Long, screeching, a wail that dove in and out of hearing. It seemed to hold more hatred and more horror than any sound I had ever heard.

And in the midst of that cry I saw one of the horsemen lift some gleaming object to his lips. And I heard, though I was not sure how the sound pierced through the cry, a clear, faint trumpet call. The trumpet call used only by my brother, Faramir Son of Denethor.

The cry grew louder, drowning all trace of the trumpet's notes. The dark shapes drew together, seeming to ride toward each other along a road of stained, ruined clouds. Then together they dove upon their prey.

I woke, lying on the cot we had borrowed from the Harbour Master. The blanket I'd been using had fallen, and was lying on the stone quay. Holgar on his cot and Svip in the water both slept on.

_Damn these dreams_, I thought. I'd had about enough of them. I _knew_ we were facing our doom; I did not need dreams to tell me so. Why couldn't I have some boring, ordinary dream? Why couldn't I have the sort of dream I normally have when I'm worried; dream that I'd neglected to write a history essay because I wanted to practice longer in the armoury, and my tutor had complained to my father, or some such trivial thing? Why did I have to keep dreaming about Faramir facing the dark?

I stood up from the cot. It must be dawn, I thought, or nearly so. But it hardly deserved the name. The sky was black no longer, but neither was there any trace of sun. Only that thick, foul cloud, grudgingly admitting a dim half light. If things kept on like this, we would have to keep the torches lit all day.

The air still hung as if it were made of lead. Not a trace of breeze, not even that which usually comes just before dawn. It was hotter than it should be at this hour, as if the fires of Mordor had rolled in upon us while we slept.

I heard something. Something so faint I was not even sure that I heard it, just on the edge of hearing. A sort of distant rumbling murmur, barely audible over the call of the River.

A shiver whispered through me, despite the oppressive heat.

I started across the quay, toward the Great Stairs.

A glimpse of movement in the corner of my eye made me glance back, and I saw Holgar scrambling from his cot and hurrying to follow me, and Svip leaping up onto the quay.

I nodded to the two of them as they caught up with me, and noted to my happiness that Svip seemed as alert and bright-eyed and healthy as ever. Then we headed up the stairs, to the intermediate tower of the island's curtain wall, facing the western shore.

The guard at the tower door saluted, and tried not to look too surprised on seeing the small, dripping form of Svip. We entered the tower, climbing the stone spiral stairway that leads up to the wall.

As we stepped onto the wall, another guard turned to face us and saluted. I walked to him, wondering if all of our soldiers were really growing younger, or if it was just me getting old.

I looked through the crenellation, to the shore. I could see nothing but that weird empty twilight. A few feet back from the riverbank, the land seemed to vanish

The guard stood beside me, scowling across the River. "You hear it?" I asked him.

"Aye, My Lord," he said grimly. "I hear it, but I can't see anything but this damned crap – begging your pardon, My Lord."

I smiled. "No offence taken." The smile swiftly vanished as I turned back to stare into the nothingness.

The sound was coming closer. I was sure of it now. Rolling, creaking noises such as we'd heard among the Orc army. The creaks of their wagons, and of who knew what siege equipment they might have been assembling while they waited to launch their assault. And the half-heard undertone that was the tread of their feet upon the plain, and the growls of excitement and blood-lust that even fear of their officers could not make them entirely restrain.

I said, "Holgar, go. Go to Captain Eradan. If he does not know of it already, inform him that the enemy is here."

"Yes, My Lord," Holgar said, and he ran.

Svip, the guard and I stood there. Svip whispered that he couldn't see anything. I murmured back, "That's all right, neither can we," but nonetheless I lifted him up and set him down in the crenellation, so he too could gaze into the bruised yellow-grey emptiness that masked the dawn.

If the storm were about to break, I wished that it would get on with it. Let it break upon us and do its worst. Anything, so long as this damnable heavy nothingness broke as well.

_Come for us_, _you bastard_, I whispered in my mind_. Make your play. Take us, if you can_.

Out of the haze came a conch shell trumpet call. A dozen catapults fired at once. Most of their missiles fell short, slamming into the walls and vanishing in the River far below. A few sailed over the wall, and I saw at least two of them burst into flame.

The storm had broken at last.


	9. Chapter Nine: The Siege of Cair Andros

Author's Note (November 2002):

For the faithful who've been waiting for this (and thank you, all of you!), here at last are the next chapters. My sincere apologies for the insanely long wait! Writer's block doesn't begin to describe it. More like writer's no-man's-land, complete with trenches, barbed wire, minefields and plenty of enemy fire.

Chapters Nine and Ten were intended originally as one chapter, but they grew out of all proportion (no surprise there!). Thank you all again, and I hope you enjoy it!

_Chapter Nine: The Siege of Cair Andros_

The trumpets of Cair Andros rang through the dark, in the call to arms.

I grabbed Svip down from the embrasure, setting him on his feet again. The enemy had not yet fired on our position; they seemed concentrating their fire on the fortress itself rather than the curtain wall about the harbour. Yet there was no point in Svip sitting there as a target.

The Men of the garrison poured forth from barracks and guard house in answer to the trumpets' summons. Up the slope from us to the north end of the island, I could see them racing to their posts on the fortress wall, barely visible in the gloom. Here below, at the island's southern extreme, more were running from the harbour guard house to the turrets, and up onto the wall. As the first of the soldiers ran through the door of the tower beside us, Svip and I stepped out of the way.

Svip tugged on my sleeve.

"What should I do?" he asked me, in a tense, urgent voice. "What can I do that's useful?"

My first impulse was to tell him to stay out of the way and not get himself hurt. But, I told myself, in these past days he had proved his mettle to us often enough. He did not deserve to be shunted away like a child.

I thought for a moment. This was hardly the moment to give Svip a lesson in archery, and besides, most of our bows were taller than he was. But there were other ways to be of use besides manning the walls.

I told him, "I'll take you to the Chief Armourer and introduce you to him. He'll have troops re-supplying the Men on the walls. Bringing arrows, and water, things like that. It's necessary work and you'd be of great help. Particularly since you can turn into a horse."

Svip frowned up at me, perhaps trying to decide if I was fobbing this off on him as a way of protecting him. Evidently I passed muster, for he just nodded firmly and said, "Right."

I set out along the wall, with Svip hurrying to keep up beside me. We made our way around the Men scattering to their posts at the embrasures, though several times Svip had to jump aside to avoid being tripped over.

As the Men took up their positions and had more leisure to notice us, our route turned into a sort of miniature triumphal progress. More and more of them recognised me, calling out my name and welcoming me home. As many as I could remember, I answered by name. Others I merely clasped their hands, or called back greetings in reply.

Any sense of triumph was certainly premature, yet I could not keep from seeing a victory in the fact that even in our Enemy's darkness, Men could yet smile.

We reached the dividing wall that separates the harbour from the main fortress. Before us stood the Turgon Tower, at the fortress' south western corner. I stood at the foot of the ladder, calling upward to the small wooden door three-quarters of the way to the tower's roof, "Hail, keepers of the tower! A son of Gondor craves admittance!"

Without waiting for reply, I started scaling the ladder, Svip following close behind. The door swung open and I scrambled through, to be met by a grey-haired soldier whom I was certain I knew, but whose name I could not for the life of me recall. I thought perhaps he was the successor to Buslai's father, who had been the sergeant commanding the Turgon Tower. It seemed that I remembered this Man standing on the tower roof with Sergeant Brynjolf, chatting and warming their hands at the brazier fire.

At this moment he was grinning fit to split his face. As I clambered through the door he grabbed my hand in both of his and shook it effusively. "My Lord," he said.

Damn, but I wished I could remember his name. I settled for gripping his shoulder and telling him, "It's good to see you."

"Aye," he replied, still grinning but finally letting go of my hand. As Svip climbed through behind me, the old soldier raised his eyebrows but then gave an impeccable salute. Svip bowed in return.

I started through the tower with the soldier at one side of me and Svip at the other. I said, "We seek the Chief Armourer. Does Sergeant Rüdiger still hold the post?"

"Aye, My Lord," the soldier answered, stopping just outside of the tower as we headed onto the wall. "I think if ever he does not, Cair Andros will fall down."

"I think you're right," I said. Further conversation was cut off by a whistling whine, and a yell of "incoming!" from one of the Men at our nearest catapult.

The sergeant grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back toward the tower. I had seized Svip's arm and pulled him back as well. The three Men at the catapult ducked, just as something thudded into the parapet beside them.

There was a sound of shattering and a hollow whoosh, and of a sudden flames sprang up in the dark, licking around the stone parapet. One of the Men gave a yell and was frantically struggling to undo his cloak, which had burst into flame.

I ran to him, but by the time I got there his two comrades had wrenched the cloak from him and hurled it down in a burning heap. By a miracle none of the fire seemed to have spread to the now cloakless soldier, though he stood staring at his burning cape with a look of understandable shock.

One of the other two catapult operators picked up the water bucket standing by the nearest brazier. He started to slosh water onto the flame, even as the third Man shouted at him, "No, you idiot!"

The fire flared brighter, spreading over the stone walkway. All of us jumped back, while the shouting man yelled on, "You damned fool! It's some kind of oil; the water's making it spread."

"It's all right," I interjected. "Just stay back from it, all of you. If we don't give it more fuel, it'll burn itself out." I smiled encouragingly and gripped the shoulder of the pale, cloakless Man, who managed a very shaky smile in return.

"All right, you useless specimens," snarled the Sergeant of the Tower, striding up to the catapult crew. "Do you think Lord Boromir wants to see you standing around? This catapult isn't for show. Get to it and keep these Orc bastards pinned down; I don't want them getting off another shot!"

The crew scattered back to their post, gingerly picking their way around the fiery cloak and the pale puddle of flame. The sergeant cast a grim look at me, and said quietly, "If you're going to the Armourer, My Lord, tell him we'll need buckets of dirt up here, to pour on the flames."

"Right," I said. I looked for Svip, and found him crouched at the edge of the fire, sniffing at it curiously. "Svip, come on."

We had no triumphal progress on this stretch of the wall. We hurried past our archers at the embrasures, their faces sporadically illumined in the glow of their arrows as they lit them at the braziers and turned back to fire into the dark. Shouts of command, the crack and whirr of our catapults firing, the whistling of our arrows, mingled with thuds as the enemy's missiles slammed into the wall, and shouts of alarm as a few of them made it over, to shatter into flame. Below all, there came a new sound: the low, steady throb of drumbeats along the shore.

At the west intermediate tower I saluted the guard at the door and strode within, Svip scampering at my heels. As we sped down the spiral stairway, Svip asked, a little out of breath, "You know the Chief Armourer? What's he like?"

"As old as Númenor," I said. "In honesty, I think he must have a deal of Númenorean blood in him; that or Elven. He's been here as long as anyone can remember; at least my father says Rüdiger was already Chief Armourer when he was stationed here for a time, when he was still the Steward's Heir."

I glanced over my shoulder at Svip, a few steps behind me. I wondered if I should explain all this Númenor business to him. Though even if I should, now was scarcely the moment. Anyway, I told myself, if Svip had been around at the time of the Old Wars, he probably knew more about the Men of Númenor than I did.

I went on as we neared the stairwell's end, "I don't think Rüdiger is bothered by much, so long as he's allowed to do his job. So he should have no difficulty adjusting to your shape-shifting. That is, if you're willing to play pack horse for a while."

We hastened from the tower. A few paces more brought us to the armoury, that takes up several long rooms in the ground floor of the fortress wall.

We stepped inside into a whirlwind of activity. One of the trapdoors to the cellar was open, and unseen Men below were heaving barrels of arrows out of it to those above, who manhandled the barrels to stand in waiting wheelbarrows. A few of the younger and skinnier Men, less able to easily heft the barrels, were hurrying from the second room with a score or so of empty buckets hanging from each hand, on their way to fill the buckets from the well in the courtyard. Another lad followed them, pushing four empty wheelbarrows stacked precariously on top of each other.

Among the men heaving the barrels I saw the stocky, white-haired form of Sergeant Rüdiger himself. It seemed he was still living up to his eyes-in-the-back-of-his-head reputation, for he grunted as the youth with the wheelbarrows rushed past behind him, "Easy with those barrows, son; I don't want my Men repairing wheelbarrows in the middle of the battle."

"Sergeant," I greeted him.

He looked up from shoving the barrel into place, and nodded. "My Lord," he said. He gave the brief twitch of the mouth that was his version of a smile, then asked, "What can we do for you?"

I said, "I bring a volunteer for your command. This is my comrade-in-arms Svip of Anduin, who has travelled with me from the Falls of Rauros. He has skills which I believe should prove useful in your work." I glanced down at Svip with a smile and asked him, "Svip, if you'd be so kind?"

I did not watch Svip as he changed, instead permitting myself a little entertainment by watching the reactions of the others. Sergeant Rüdiger remained predictably impassive, betraying surprise only by the slightest jolting of one eyebrow. But the Men moving the barrels froze in drop-jawed amazement – to the accompaniment of irritated yells from below, as their fellows waited for them to take the next barrels. Near the door, behind me, I heard a clattering and a quickly stifled oath, that I thought was likely the poor kid running into his wheelbarrows.

I glanced over at the big grey horse. In a flicker of motion it vanished, as a wisp of smoke. Svip stood there in his usual person, looking quietly pleased with himself.

Rüdiger said dryly, "Any comrade of yours is welcome, My Lord." He commented in a mild tone to his Men standing by the trap door, "There are still barrels down there."

Recalling the burning oil of the enemy's missiles, I told the sergeant, "The enemy is firing incendiary missiles, that burn with some kind of oil. We can't use water to douse these fires; we'll need buckets of dirt on the walls and around the fortress. I'll set some troops to digging, if you'll provide the buckets."

He gave a brief nod. "Aye, My Lord. I'll see to it."

I glanced at Svip again, and had to hold back a sigh. Now that I came to it, I found that I was loath to leave him. Yet it was not as if he'd be in more danger in Sergeant Rüdiger's command, than anywhere else in the besieged fortress. Indeed, he was probably safer than he would be trailing after me, considering my usual skill at attracting trouble.

I nodded to Svip. "I'll see you later, then," I said.

He nodded back, with a determinedly cheerful smile. "You'll tell me everything that happens, won't you? I don't want to miss anything."

"Right," I said, with a salute. "We'll swap stories over our daymeal."

I left with alacrity, before I could get cold feet about leaving my small green friend in the midst of a battle. Ahead of me I noticed the lads from the Armoury with their buckets and wheelbarrows, hastening across the courtyard to the fortress' well. I smiled at their hasty, awkward gait. They had probably fled the Armoury just before I left it, to avoid receiving one of Rüdiger's mild-voiced, ironic lectures.

I headed for the east side of the wall, nodding to the boys as I caught up with them and passed them. Then I climbed the stairs of the east intermediate tower, directly opposite where Svip and I had descended.

On the eastern shore, all seemed quiet. Nothing greeted our Men who gazed eastward over the wall, but ruddy darkness and the sounds of combat behind them.

In discussion with one of the catapult crews I found their officer, a red-haired lieutenant with a build that suggested he had troll blood somewhere in his ancestry. "Lieutenant Golasgil," I hailed him, as he and the catapult crew saluted. "Pretty quiet out there?"

He gave an irritated snort. "So quiet, My Lord, we're thinking of starting up a rock-skipping tournament. You can't get the boys on the west wall to change places with us, can you?"

"I doubt it. But I do have a job for some of your lads, though it's nothing exciting. We need supplies of dirt to douse the oil fires from these missiles they're sending. Send a third of your Men down to the courtyard to start digging; they'll be working under the command of Sergeant Rüdiger."

Golasgil nodded briskly. "Yes, My Lord." He hesitated a moment, then added, "Sir – it's good to see you back again."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," I said. "Good luck with the rock-skipping contest."

As I headed along the wall once more, I heard Golasgil mustering his troops.

"Every third Man, down to the courtyard! Your comrades need you digging up dirt. First Man I hear complain is on digging duty for the rest of the battle."

Once again I made a tour of the wall. As I passed the farthest north point of the fortress, walking through the arched doorways of the North Tower, I passed from the quiet of the eastern side to the tumult of the west. Each step brought closer the shouts and the crashing of missiles, the smell of smoke and the sharp, stinging reek from the burning oil, as if all of the medicines in the Houses of Healing had been gathered together and set alight.

Captain Eradan stood with the catapult crew nearest the west shore guardhouse, giving orders for its destruction. Near him, amongst the archers at the embrasures, I saw two of my Ranger friends, Captain Cirion and young Holgar. I saw no sign of Thorolf, Finn or Buslai. I wondered with a twinge of worry if the three of them had been declared unfit for duty, or if they simply were stationed elsewhere in the fortress.

His conference with the catapult crew concluded, Eradan walked over to me, his face bearing a nervous expression that I'd not seen on him in decades. I had to suppress a smile. It was the same look he used to have when I was drilling him on his swordsmanship, and he was never sure if I would commend his progress or tell him to run the whole drill over again.

I thought, _Valar help the commanding officer whose superior drops in on him unannounced in the midst of an invasion_.

I reported to him on the troops I'd set to digging in the courtyard, then asked, "Where would you like me?"

Eradan looked taken aback. "You'll not take command, My Lord?"

I shook my head. "This is your command, Eradan. I'll go where I'm most needed."

There was a mixture of emotions on Eradan's face. I read them as relief that his best friend's elder brother had not come striding in to take away his job, combined with a sneaking regret that he still must bear the weight of command.

He squared his shoulders, and the momentary look of uncertainty passed. "If you'll command the harbour wall, then. We've seen no activity there as yet, but if the enemy turn out to have any boats at their disposal, they'd be mad to keep pounding at us here when they could strike at the harbour." Eradan turned back toward the catapult crew, raising his voice in command. "Corporal Amandil."

A burly, dark-bearded soldier stood up from where he'd been shoving on the right wheel of the catapult, helping its crew to shift it to its new location. He crossed to us, rubbing his palms on his tunic.

Eradan said to me, "Corporal Amandil will serve as your orderly, My Lord. You can rely upon him."

The corporal bowed, looking decidedly as though he wished that I would not rely upon him. I wondered if his discomfort were due to my exalted rank, or to the rumour that I'd come back from the dead.

"Good to see you, Corporal," I said, thrusting out my hand at him. The poor Man managed a polite smile and we shook hands, though he then surreptitiously wiped off his hand again.

Eradan was right about this attack, I thought as the Corporal and I made our way to the harbour. Orcs are not known for their skill as boatmen, yet there seemed little point in attacking Cair Andros at all if they just intended to stand on the shore shooting at us. Burning missiles or no, we could pick them off one by one and wipe them out before ever we felt the privations of a long siege. It would be rank foolishness to launch such an attack. Particularly since no external force had compelled this army to attack us. If they chose to they could easily have kept their path further to the east, and drawn nigh to Osgiliath and the City without ever facing the defenders of Cair Andros.

No, they were after our destruction, and I could not but think that they had some other plan besides standing around as targets. They were here at the command of the Dark Lord and his captains, and if the Nameless One himself had spawned their battle plans, then they ought to be worth something.

He had had centuries to plot his invasion of Gondor. After all that time, I thought, he ought to do it right.

On the harbour wall, we waited, all through that morning that brought no light. The smoke grew heavier about us, deepening the unnatural dusk. Eradan's bowmen along the fortress wall had set fire to the grass on the western shore, to give the Orcs something to do besides lob missiles at us. For some time it had worked, enemy troops running about in satisfying confusion in their attempts to douse the fires. We even had the pleasure of seeing two of their siege engines catch alight, and be damaged beyond use before they could put them out.

But our fun could not last. The grass fires were stamped out, with all of the grassland within range of our archers too burned to provide further fuel. The enemy had closed ranks about their siege engines, troops with thick fire-resistant shields ranked in their defence, and extra water buckets at the ready about each. Their catapult crews kept falling to our arrows, but there were always more to replace them, and those who survived suffered no worse from our efforts than getting soaked when their fellows cast water on any equipment touched by our fire.

And still they sent their missiles to our walls, and still under everything, the drumbeats went on.

I made several tours of the wall on both sides of the harbour, engaging in brief conversations with the defenders and assuring myself that all was in readiness. At each of the twin harbour towers, I inspected the winch mechanisms for the chain across the harbour mouth. The view from the tower windows, as from the wall, showed no sign yet of any water-borne assault.

"Do you think they'll strike here, sir?" one of the tower guards asked me in a nervous tone. I did not think I remembered him from previous times I'd been stationed at Cair Andros, and he looked young enough for this to be his first battle.

"I don't know," I said, hoping that I seemed appropriately bold and encouraging. "But if they do, we'll give them a run for their money."

He grinned. "Yes, sir," he said, sounding a good deal more confident than before. I set out again, climbing the stairs to the wall. While I stomped upward, Corporal Amandil following at a respectful distance behind, I let my fearless confidence slip, scowling instead in the maddening frustration of waiting.

_We could take two of the ships in the harbour_, I thought, _man them with half of the Men on the harbour walls, and take the fight to the enemy instead of waiting for them to come to us_. For a moment I let myself wander in imaginings of coming to grips with our foe at last, feeling my sword bite into enemy flesh. I grimaced ruefully as I banished the images.

_You are not fifteen_, I reminded myself. _You are not fifteen and this is not your first combat. You are Captain-General of Gondor, and your Men and all the kingdom depend on you, as they have always done. They count on you to defend them, and to lead them to victory. And there are times when it is the part of a leader to wait, and to give his Men the courage to endure the waiting_.

I stepped onto the wall, wishing I would feel the breeze that usually plays along the battlements of Cair Andros, and feeling only the sultry, smoke-shrouded stillness.

The archer at the first embrasure nodded to me, then glanced up at the brooding sky.

"What time do you think it is, My Lord?" he asked.

The first reply that jumped to my mind was "I'm damned if I know," but I restrained myself. "Late morning, perhaps?" I hazarded. "I believe it was around dawn when they first made their appearance, and I'd reckon it at six hours or so, since then."

The bowman gave a quiet, humourless laugh. "Six hours, or an age. I half expect we'll find the Third Age's ended, and the Fourth one's begun without our noticing."

The two Men nearest along the wall stepped closer, drawn by the conversation that at least provided some diversion from waiting.

"If an Age has passed," one joked, "I expect we're overdue for some dinner. Begging your pardon for mentioning it, My Lord."

"You," the third one snorted, elbowing he who had just spoken, "you're always thinking with your belly. Don't you know soldiers of Gondor dine on combat and wash it down with glory?"

"Aye, I do," the hungry one returned, "it's just that combat and glory go so well with mushroom pie."

I smiled, the conversation and the mention of mushrooms reminding me of my lost friends the halflings. I was about to contribute some comment about pies and glory, when I saw the posture of the bowman I'd first spoken with stiffen, his face going grim as he gazed south along the River.

"They're coming," he said.

All of us turned to follow his gaze. The blood-tinged twilight seemed at first unchanged. Then I saw a small, darker blotch upon the surface of the water, and a flicker of movement that might be an oar.

"Archers at the ready!" I shouted, even as the conversationalists scattered. "Trumpeter, to me!"

The young trumpeter ran to my side, to pass on my orders to the Men on the east harbour wall. All along the walls archers leapt to the embrasures and nocked their arrows. I loosened my sword in its scabbard.

The first shape that we had seen moved out of the dusk, resolving itself into a long, flat-bottomed boat. I could make out eight oarsmen seated on the bottom, and other shapes crouched together at the boat's centre, in one hulking mass. Behind and to either side of the first boat came others, some long and low like the first, some small rafts and coracles scarcely large enough to hold two of our foes.

I leapt up the few steps that led to the roof of the tower, where I could command a clearer view of their approach. The trumpeter and Corporal Amandil took up position at the foot of the stairs.

The first craft drove like a spear for the harbour's mouth. The others, rapidly approaching in its wake, divided to either side, making for our walls.

"Men on the walls!" I yelled. "Hold your fire! Archers on the towers, independent fire at will!"

Just before they would have slammed into the harbour chain, the first boat's Orcs had shipped their oars. The Orcs at the centre of the boat sprang up, and passengers and oarsmen alike were now swarming at the chain, hacking at it with axes and swords. Our Men on the towers fired down upon them, in a withering hail.

The Orcs on that first boat crumpled in seconds. Some fell shrieking into the water, others lay mounded upon their craft. But even as their boat started to aimlessly drift, the next boats drew near.

"On the walls! Mark your targets as they approach! Independent fire at will!"

The wave broke on us. And our foes' strategy became clear.

As the longboats pulled beneath our walls, the Orcs within flung up ladders, jamming them between keel and harbour wall. They swarmed upward like vast insects. Falling to our arrows, they crashed down on their comrades who followed, or were trampled as the next Orcs leapt from boat to ladder. The crews of the smaller boats, I realised, were archers, drawing alongside the longboats to cover their fellows' attack.

Orc archers notwithstanding, our Men had scarcely any challenge in finishing the Orcs of that first wave, and hurling their ladders from our wall. But behind them came the next assault, and beyond, out of the darkness, came more.

Orcs in the next boats were dragging the now unmanned crafts away from the walls, though a few bounded from their own boats onto those of their slain compatriots, turning the fleet into a huge pontoon bridge. Two who had taken this route, carrying a siege ladder between them, were cut down as arrows blossomed in the chest of one and the forehead of another. But three more raced just behind them, grabbing up the ladder and jamming it to the wall before our archers above them could fire again.

I bellowed, "Light your arrows! Set fire to the boats!"

_That should hold them off for a few minutes_, I thought, as boat after boat flickered into flame. In that darkness the harbour must have seemed some castle out of legend, walls ringed about by fire. Yet already Orc boatmen were reaching with oars and spears to pull the burning boats from their path, despite the arrows of fire that seared down the instant they approached.

_There will be too many of them_, was the thought that sprang to my mind. Beyond the fiery belt, the River seemed paved with them, vanished entirely beneath their hulls. That five hundred we had estimated could no longer account for all of these, not if they yet maintained any presence along the fortress walls.

I wondered, with a sudden chill, where this Orc fleet had sprung from. I had been assuming they were part of the same force that had first attacked. That they had moved south in the darkness while their comrades assailed the walls, their boats perhaps loaded on wagons, and they had likely taken to the water not far south of the harbour.

But there was another possibility, one more grim than I cared to imagine: that this fleet had originated from the south. That Osgiliath had already been lost to us, and that these Orcs were but a mopping-up operation sent to finish us off.

It sent a shiver of horror through me, before I sternly ordered myself not to entertain the thought.

If Osgiliath were taken, and the enemy felt confident enough to spare these troops for our destruction, then the logical assumption would be that the City was taken as well.

That was a possibility that I would not admit.

A young Man ran up to me, saluting and calling breathlessly, "Captain Eradan's compliments, My Lord. He asks if you require anything."

_Yes_, I thought, _about two thousand more Men_. Instead I asked, "What's the situation at the fortress?"

"Still enemy troops along the west shore. More have been spotted approaching from the east. The Captain says he has sufficient Men to keep them pinned down, and can spare some for the harbour if you require them."

"My compliments to Captain Eradan, and tell him we can put another forty Men to work if he can spare them."

As the youth raced off, I set out along the wall. "Count off by threes," I ordered. "Ones and twos, you'll form the first and second ranks of bowmen. Every third Man, put aside your bows. You'll cover for your comrades who are still firing. Be prepared to hold the wall at any point they may break through."

We had barely enough Men to pull this tactic off. Any fewer, and the three companies would be too small to effectively perform their tasks. Yet I thought there were just enough of us to make it work.

Certainly there would be if Eradan sent those forty Men. Though even then, our force would be dispersed more widely than the builders of Cair Andros intended.

The fortress and harbour were built to support a garrison of a thousand. With scarce over two hundred to man the entire island, any defence we mounted must lean heavily on improvisation and luck.

"My Lord," came the urgent voice of Corporal Amandil, hurrying toward me. "There are more boats approaching the harbour mouth. They'll be out of the line of fire of our Men on the wall; the Men on the Tower will not be enough to hold them."

I nodded. "Get you to the harbour catapults, give them my order to fire on any craft that nears the harbour mouth."

"Yes, My Lord." He saluted and sped away.

A long, rending crash sounded beyond the wall. I sprang to the nearest embrasure.

All along the wall, the next assault smashed into the boats we had set afire.

The Orc boatmen drove at us, some shoving the burning boats aside with their oars, some abandoning their own boats and bounding through the flames.

"First rank!" I bellowed. "Fire!"

The line of running Orcs wavered as fiery arrows rained upon them. But for each that dropped, it seemed two more followed on his heels.

"Second rank, fire!"

Now the first of those who had stayed in their own boats succeeded in shoving through, grabbing up siege ladders and slamming them against our wall.

"First rank, fire!"

Over and over I yelled the commands. Arrows flew. Orcs fell. Still they came on.

It came to me that much of these Orcs' equipment had to be fireproof. The cloaks and jerkins they wore, without doubt, were treated with some fire-resistant substance. I saw burning arrows skewer many an Orc, yet their clothing did not burn. One huge monster I saw pluck a fiery bolt from his arm and keep climbing, as if the arrow were no more to him than a mosquito.

Only the Orcs' hair seemed susceptible to fire. As one plummeted with an arrow in his skull, his hair caught alight. For an instant he burned like a gigantic torch, before vanishing in the water below.

Nor could we set their ladders afire, for they were forged of metal. We heard it as they clanged on the stone wall, and saw it as arrows hit them and veered harmlessly off.

Behind us I could hear the whirr and splash of our catapults firing on the harbour's mouth. I had little fear of attack from that direction. Between them, the tower archers and the catapult crews should easily keep the foe from our backs.

Our front was another question.

The bowmen fired tirelessly. Yet first one Orc, then another and another reached the crest of the wall before our Men could mow them down.

As the Orcs leapt from their ladders to the embrasures, Men of the third rank sprang to the attack.

Swords rang on axes, and the cry of "Gondor!" sounded against wild Orcish snarls.

Those three Orcs did not survive long. One of them I saw topple backward with his ladder, crashing into the boat beneath and breaking it in two. In the corner of my vision I saw another fall to his opponent's sword. The Man wrenched his sword free and kicked the corpse away, sending it rolling off the wall to the flagstones below.

As if those three had carried with them the spirit of the attack, the Orcs' assault slowed.

More of them rushed the wall and flung up ladders. More of them climbed to us, and more of them fell to our archers' fire. But no more lived to reach the embrasures and the welcome that awaited them.

The boats beneath us, illumined by flame, were empty of all save the dead.

In the distance I could see another rank of boats. They were far enough away that I wondered if they were there at all, and not some trick that the darkness played on my sight.

They floated just within seeing, but they did not advance.

Out of the dark we heard the call of a conch shell horn. I thought I recognised it as the Orcs' signal to stand by. Certainly that was the import it seemed to have, for the line of boats held position, wavering in and out of seeing.

For a moment it seemed as though all of us held our breath. In the sudden quiet we heard no fighting on the east harbour wall, and no sound of our catapults. The only sound near us was the crackle of flames from the boats below. Distantly there came still the noise of combat from the fortress walls, and the drumbeats along the shore.

"At ease," I commanded. "Get the rest of these boats burning. I don't want to see any of them not in flames."

Somewhere along the line Corporal Amandil had reappeared behind me. I stepped away from the embrasure and addressed him. "Take over here, Corporal. If they strike again before I return, you have command of the archers."

I had noticed two lads from the armoury making their way along the wall. Both of them bore large, bulging satchels slung over their arms. They were handing out bundles of arrows to those archers who noticed them, and setting the bundles down beside those who still fired.

I started toward the two boys. Their progress halted temporarily as they came to the third of the Orcs that had made it onto the wall, lying sprawled across their path. They stopped for a moment, then walked gingerly toward it. Leaning against his embrasure, one soldier greeted them with a cheery, "Hello, boys! He won't bite."

"Did you kill him, sir?" one boy asked in an awe-filled tone.

"No, that was Lothar here," he said, jerking a thumb at the Man standing next to him. Lothar was busy unfastening his helmet, but he paused to nod to the boys before he pulled the helmet off and set about mopping sweat from his face. "He hogs all the fun," the first Man went on. "Won't let anyone else have a chance."

Lothar grunted. "Next Orc that comes running at me that you want to jump in and kill, be my guest." He noticed the boys gazing wide-eyed at him, and grinned. "Want any souvenirs?" he offered. "Some nice Orc jewellery to take to your girls back home?"

Both lads spoke at once. "No, thank you!" one said emphatically, while the other said, "_He_ doesn't have any girl."

I walked up to them. As they noticed me, Lothar and his comrade straightened and saluted. The boys executed rather uncomfortable bows, managing to avoid overbalancing their satchels of arrows.

"Good work," I said to Lothar. "Now let's get this fellow out of here so we're not tripping on him."

"Yes, sir," and "Aye, My Lord," Lothar and the other soldier chorused, seizing the dead Orc by arms and legs and preparing to heave him over the wall.

I turned back to the lads from the armoury. I asked, nodding at the Orc's corpse, "You're sure you don't want any spoils of war?"

"No, thank you, My Lord."

"No, really sir, thank you."

I had another question for them, which was what had taken me to them in the first place. "Have either of you seen the halfling who's working with Sergeant Rüdiger?"

Both of them nodded with enthusiasm. "The shape-shifter? Yes, My Lord," eagerly answered the older-looking one who'd said that the other had no girl. "Last I saw he was with Corporal Kaspar, re-supplying the east wall."

"He's all right, then."

"Yes, sir. That was just a few minutes ago that I saw him." The boy hesitated a moment, then asked, "Can he change into anything else besides horses, My Lord?"

"Not that I know of," I said. "But I have seen him trample Orcs to death, and shake them to death with his teeth."

"That's great," whispered the younger boy, while the older just breathed, "Whew."

I had to smile at their bright-eyed awe, but we did have a battle to be fighting. "Carry on with your duties," I said formally, then I asked as they both saluted, "Is someone bringing water?"

"Yes, sir, Erling and Castamir are just a little behind us."

"Thank you. Carry on."

As the boys went about their task, I saw another group hastening along the wall from the direction of the fortress. From the look of their numbers, they must be Eradan's forty Men. Good, I thought; I would intersperse them with the troops on the harbour walls, for they should be fresher than our archers who'd just had to deal with Orcs racing up ladders into their faces. If the foe held off for just a bit longer, and if the promised water arrived swiftly, we should all be in good shape, rested enough to take whatever new forces the enemy flung at us.

I consulted with the lieutenant whom Eradan had sent, and set him to dividing his men between the two harbour walls. The boys with water buckets appeared soon after. Convinced that all was as well as I could make it, I returned to my post by the tower and relieved Corporal Amandil of command.

The corporal, I thought, was looking rather less jumpy around me than he had been. Hopefully being under fire had steadied his nerves, or convinced him that he had more serious concerns than worrying himself over how to act around a Captain-General who was back from the grave.

The news of Svip had done much to ease my mind. It seemed that he was fitting in well; at least the boys from the armoury seemed very taken with him. I presumed that their elders would treat him with respect, if not with as much enthusiasm as did the boys. If nothing else, they would respect him because they knew they'd have both Sergeant Rüdiger and me to deal with if they did not.

I wondered how Svip was enjoying his first siege. Whether he still thought that journeying to the realms of Men was an interesting adventure, or if he was wishing that he had never heard of us. After what he had got into trailing around with us, I wouldn't blame him much if he started to think that Sauron could walk all over Gondor and be welcome to it.

A hint of movement drew my eyes to the dark River.

"Oh, damn," murmured the soldier standing next to me. "Here we go again."

The line of boats was on the move.

"Attention! Archers at the ready!" I shouted once more. The trumpet's clear notes relayed my orders to the Men on the east wall.

This time no conch shell's call had announced the Orcs' movements. I wondered briefly what signal they'd had that told them to advance.

The grim notion occurred to me that perhaps the Black Captain or one of his Riders was here with the Orc army, as at Osgiliath last summer when we lost the eastern shore. It was only yesterday, though I found that hard to credit, that we had felt the dark one's passage overhead as we hid in the midst of their army. If those shadows of the air were here, they could give the signal to advance merely by flying over their forces. In this accursed darkness the signal would be too far away for us to ever see it.

But no, I told myself. If those Riders were here, we would know it, from the fear that was more difficult to fight than any mortal foe.

Here we had only flesh and blood enemies to deal with. And their flesh would be torn and their blood spilled, I vowed, before this day was gone.

The fleet had moved close enough that we could see the boatmen's faces, blood-red in the dying glow from their comrades' boats.

"Mark your targets!" I shouted.

A whine and a crash cut the air, and the wall shook.

"Down!" I bellowed, through the shouts around me and another whistling crash. "Get down!"

"Bloody damn," muttered Corporal Amandil. He and I had both flattened ourselves to the parapet, and now we peeked our heads through the embrasure. "Is that coming from the boats or the shore?"

"The shore, I think," I answered. A swift scan of their boats showed me none with any catapults aboard. The fleet came on, undaunted by the destruction whining over their heads.

Two more crashes sounded, almost on top of each other. The familiar medicinal reek of their incendiary missiles stung at my nostrils. Then a rush of motion in the dark sky ended as a roundish boulder slammed into the tower wall not four feet to my left. In a burst of sound and a cloud of pulverised rock dust, the boulder bounced off, smashing down on one of the enemy's boats. Boulder and boat vanished amid splashes, splintering wood and screams.

I coughed in the swirling dust. "Damn it to hell," I snarled. "They're using fire _and_ rocks, now." Stepping out of the dust cloud, I shouted my orders. "All of you, keep down when you can. Don't present a bigger target than necessary. Third rank, stand ready. First and second ranks, independent fire at will!"

A second boulder overshot the tower, the splash behind us proclaiming that its flight had ended in the harbour. I hoped it had not annihilated any of our ships in the process, but I did not take the time to check.

They must have moved three siege engines into place against us, from the number and frequency of the shots that they fired. My best guess was that they were firing their explosive missiles from two catapults aimed at the harbour wall, and boulders from one aimed at destroying the tower. I did not hear any echoing fire to the east; they must be concentrating their two-pronged attack on this wall, while giving their troops to the east a better chance of reaching the wall without being smashed by their own fire.

I turned to Corporal Amandil. In his coating of dust he looked to have been in an explosion at a flour mill. I imagined I looked the same, but it was scarcely the moment to trouble ourselves with our grooming. "Corporal," I commanded. "Get to Captain Eradan. Present my compliments and my request that the fortress' southwesternmost catapults be brought to bear upon these that are firing on us."

"Aye, My Lord!" He saluted and ran.

There was a strong chance, I knew, that the fortress catapults could do nothing to aid us. Their crews could not use sight to guide them this day, though the catapult crews are among the keenest-sighted Men of Gondor's forces. I could see nothing of the enemy siege engines' locations, yet I judged from their missiles' trajectories that they must be near directly across the water from where I stood. That our catapult crews farther north on the fortress wall would be able to glimpse them I did not believe, even were their vision as keen as that of the Elves.

If they could use the enemy's own shots to successfully plot their locations, so much the better, and I would personally recommend each and every one of those crewmen for promotion. For now, my chief concern lay elsewhere: with the Orcs whose boats had reached the base of the wall, and who even now swarmed up their ladders toward us.

There must be twenty boats at the least, spewing forth Orcs with their siege ladders all along the west harbour wall. I could not tell how many might be ranged against the east, but from the line of boats I'd seen earlier and the haste with which our Men on the east were firing, it must be as many or more.

Arrow-spitted Orcs plummeted from the ladders. A missile smashed into one of the embrasures and erupted in flame, engulfing two of our Men in an instant. Another missile, aimed too low, hit the topmost Orc on the ladder nearest my position, knocking him from his perch.

As he plunged into the water, the Orc who'd been climbing behind him yelled a battle cry and charged. Launching himself from the ladder to the wall, he tackled the archer to my right, knocking him backward.

A horrified cry from the prostrate archer and a bloodthirsty snarl from the Orc blended with my own war cry and one from another soldier nearby, as both of us rushed to the archer's rescue. We struck at almost the same instant, my sword blow lopping off the Orc's head while the other sliced his torso nearly in half. I let the soldier help our stunned and blood-spattered comrade from under the dismembered corpse, while I ran back to the parapet. Already more attackers were getting through the archers' fire, leaping from their ladders onto the wall.

"Gondor!" I yelled, hurling myself at an Orc who had reached the top of his ladder and was swinging his battleaxe at the nearest archer.

The Orc ducked out of my way. With an arm-jolting clang my sword met his axe. He wobbled on his ladder, the force I exerted on our locked weapons nearly knocking him loose.

The archer to my right fired, skewering the Orc neatly in the chest. The Orc swayed and toppled backward, his squealing scream ending in a distant splash.

That archer and his nearest neighbour seemed to have this ladder under control, one firing down on the topmost Orc while the other nocked his next arrow. But a clang to my left told me that a new ladder had been flung against the wall, at a position we did not have guarded. I ran toward the sound.

A massive Orc in a gold-embroidered cloak leapt over the parapet, landing in a crouch directly before me. Even as he landed, he was swinging at me a huge, curved sword with two extra blades, that stuck out from the main blade like lethal tree branches.

I had to duck away from his first blow, then parried the second. One of the secondary blades caught my sword and held it in place, the Orc pulling me toward him. I caught a glimpse of a dagger in his other hand, and I managed to kick him in the gut while twisting my sword free. I jumped backward, as the Orc roared and then charged at me again.

In the corner of my vision I saw another Orc jumping from the ladder toward me. His war hammer was swinging for my head, as the first monster's sword sliced in a gigantic arc.

I ducked and rolled away from both blows, impaling the first Orc with a thrust from below as his rush carried him past me. He crumpled, smashing down on me before I could get out of the way.

The Orc with the hammer was still charging like a maddened bull. I heaved on the fallen Orc with my left hand, failed to budge him, and swung up my sword in a wild parry, halting the hammer just before it would have landed in my skull. Sliding my sword along the hammer, I managed to hook it and flip it out of its owner's grasp.

With the Orc momentarily disarmed, I turned my efforts to hauling myself from under his comrade's corpse. The Orc seized his hammer and ran at me again, just as I wormed my way out. I struggled up on one knee, raising my sword as the hammer made another swing.

My sword blow met a sudden lack of resistance, as the hammer dropped from my opponent's hand. The Orc fell as well, collapsing onto his gold-cloaked fellow. An arrow bristled from his back, and the archer who had fired was hurrying toward me, reaching out his hand to help me up.

"Thanks," I said, as I clutched the archer's hand and pulled myself to my feet. He grinned, saluted, and turned back to the parapet.

I grimaced as I followed him. That had been entirely too close.

Normally when I fight, I am gifted – or afflicted, as my brother would say – with a sense of invincibility. But this time death had come close enough that it chipped at my illusion of omnipotence.

_I will not let myself be slain again_, I thought fiercely. _Not now. Not when I am this close to getting home_.

_Well, I'm sure that will help_, I sneered at myself. _Why didn't you tell that to the Orcs at Amon Hen? I'm sure they would have apologised and let you go_.

The wall shuddered as another boulder slammed into the tower.

There seemed no sign of the assault diminishing in force. Rank after rank of Orcs still rushed the ladders, missiles and boulders still bombarded our wall. We fought on until all the Orcs of this wave were slain, their corpses littering the wall and choking the water beneath. Yet their deaths brought scant respite, for as the last of them were falling, a conch shell sounded and the next line of boats appeared out of the dark.

A soldier near me muttered, "I have really had enough of these bastards."

I called to the defenders, "Ranks one and two, get the rest of those boats burning. We should have a few minutes at the least until they come again. Get what rest you can, while their next wave approaches."

Restful it was not, for the bombardment kept up unabated. Keeping low as the missiles whistled and crashed, I made my way along the wall. Here and there I paused to exchange a few words with the Men. I stopped longer at the point where a missile had hit two Men, their bodies now lying covered by the cloaks of two of their comrades. Four soldiers sat by them in a makeshift vigil, while a fifth stood at the embrasure to give the alert when the enemy drew nigh.

"Who were they?" I asked quietly, kneeling beside the vigil-keepers.

"Gwydion Son of Gryffud and Tarannon Son of Valdemar, My Lord," one of the watchers answered. "Gwydion hailed from Halfirien, and Tarannon's father leads the Vintner's Guild in Minas Tirith."

"Aye," I nodded. "I know the family." I sought for something meaningful to say, but found nothing. I clasped the hand of each of the watchers in turn, then continued along the wall.

Only a little ways on, I found two others I had spoken with earlier that morn. The one whose name I did not know, who had joked at the young water-carriers over the body of the slain Orc, was kneeling by his comrade Lothar, the Orc's killer. Lothar's body was burned from head to foot. Only one arm seemed to have escaped the fire. His friend held Lothar's unburned hand, and tried to hold him still, to stop him from scraping his burns on the paving stones as he writhed.

The uninjured Man looked up and smiled wanly at me. "My Lord," he said.

Again I knelt, feeling the hateful, desperate uselessness of the commander who watches his soldiers die. Again I wished for some supernatural power – for Svip's silverweed, or for the Ring.

Lothar's comrade spoke rapidly in a shaky tone, as though by speaking of something else he could cancel the reality about him. "They're made of pottery, My Lord," he observed. "The missiles. They're some kind of pots with oil inside them, and a burning wick in the mouth. So the oil catches fire when they break. We ought to see if we can make them ourselves. When we get out of this. Though I've never seen oil that burns that fast."

I nodded, unable to keep my gaze from Lothar's burned face. "It's from the southlands, I think," I said. "I've heard travellers' tales from Harandor, of black oil that bubbles from the ground and burns faster than any fuel."

"Oh. That will be it, then."

Lothar moaned, and the other soldier gripped his friend's hand in both of his.

"We'll get some water for him," I promised, putting my hand on the grieving Man's shoulder. "I've just seen Men from the armoury along the east wall. There should be some here soon."

"Aye. He was asking for water earlier, My Lord."

I stood, to see if I could spot any water-carriers approaching. I saw those on the east harbour wall again, two figures making their way through the ranks with water buckets, and two others distributing bundles of arrows.

I looked north toward the main fortress. No one was approaching along the wall, but below us, descending the Great Stairs from the fortress gate, was a small procession made up of three Men and one horse. The Men were burdened with satchels and buckets, and the horse bore at least as much again as all three of the Men together.

I smiled, for even at this distance and in the hazy dusk I was sure that I recognised the horse.

I glanced back over the wall. The next line of Orc boats was nearly upon us. As I watched, a catapult shot that fell too short plummeted into the path of one of their boats and vanished in the water. Seemingly undaunted by their near miss, the oarsmen ploughed on.

I grimaced at the thought of how many troops the enemy must have, if they were so unconcerned at the risk of wiping out their own soldiers. Not for the first time, I thanked the fates that I had not had the misfortune to be born an Orc.

Distantly, I heard the thwack and whirr of a catapult's shot. It took me a moment to realise that the shot came not from the shore, but from the fortress.

Another shot soared through the dark, then another. Scattered cheers broke out among our Men as realisation came that the catapults which had been hammering us, were at last under fire themselves.

This assault on their ground forces did not seem to alter the plans of the fleet. Their boats rushed in at us, knocking aside the burning hulks of their predecessors' crafts.

"At the ready!" I yelled. "Keep under cover as much as you can; their catapults are still firing." Once again I shouted the order, "First and second ranks, independent fire at will!"

For a time again all other thoughts were shoved aside in the serious business of combat. Again Orcs stormed the parapet. Again our arrows mowed them down. Again we hacked down any foeman that made it onto the wall.

But as I stabbed another opponent, stepped back from him and nearly lost my footing on the blood-slippery flagstones, I wondered how long all of this could last.

How many troops did they have? Was their commander willing to sacrifice them all, to keep flinging them at us until they had either taken the harbour or all of them were slain?

If things went on as they were, I thought that we could hold them off indefinitely. Particularly if Eradan sent fresh Men to the harbour's aid, either adding to our forces or substituting out the harbour defenders and putting Men from the fortress in their place.

But things would not go on as they were. For unless we could take out their siege engine that was spitting boulders at us, eventually they would breach the tower wall. Once the tower was down, it could not be much longer before they gained the entrance to the harbour.

Then we would have two choices: to retreat to the fortress, or to die where we stood.

I stepped to the parapet to check on how many of this assault we had left to kill. At that moment, in the darkness where I knew the riverbank must lie, there came an eruption of flame.

Fire roared upward, piercing the dark. It looked as though a bonfire had been lit in one instant upon Anduin's shore.

We stared, then cheers broke out all along the harbour wall.

"They got it!" someone near me yelled. "Valar bless them, boys, they got the damned thing!"

There was only one reasonable explanation. One of our catapult shots had hit an enemy siege engine, or at least it had hit a supply of their pottery and oil missiles. One way or another, the missiles had shattered and the oil had caught alight. And the whole affair had gone up in flames.

We could not spare long for rejoicing, for Orcs were still storming our walls. But as we fired and hacked at our besiegers, something else occurred that I did not expect.

The conch shell trumpets sounded again. They sounded in a call I had not heard throughout this battle: the Orc army's signal to fall back.

Those Orcs who were already on the ladders charged onward. But as our archers picked them off and the rest of us waited at the ready, we saw a glorious sight. The boats that had been waiting in the distance pulled away, fading from sight. Shouting incomprehensible jeers, presumably promises that they would return, the Orcs still in the boats below us started to row into the dark.

Shouts of mocking encouragement and arrows of fire urged them on their way.

I yelled, "It's not time to party yet. They'll be back. I want a Man to each embrasure, on watch. Take it in turns; you can work out the shifts amongst yourselves. The others, get some rest. There's water on the way."

I hurried to check again on Svip and the Men from the armoury. I saw them close below me, at the door to the west wall's intermediate tower. They had stopped, and the Men were unloading the barrels and saddle bags they'd rigged to hang over Svip's sides. I had to smile as I thought of it. Even a horse of Svip's peculiar talents would have difficulty manoeuvring the tower's spiral stairs.

I called to two soldiers sitting nearby, "The two of you, with me. We'll help bring the supplies up to the wall."

We met the first of the armoury's Men on their way up. They handed off their barrels to the two I had with me, then the armoury Men and I hastened down the tower stairs.

At the doorway I nearly ran into Svip, in his usual form. He was staggering with his arms about a water barrel nearly as large as he was.

"Svip, for heaven's sake!" I exclaimed. "Let me take that."

He smiled wearily as he handed the barrel over to me, then scampered back outside for a satchel of arrows that at least was lighter than the bucket.

On the battlement the Men from the armoury set about prying loose the lids of the barrels, and carrying water and arrows to the defenders of the wall. I stopped one of them who would have taken the last of the barrels.

"Let me keep it a moment," I said. "There is one who requires the water first."

With Svip and the soldier from the armoury at my heels, I carried the barrel to Lothar and his comrade.

Lothar still lived, although I thought that he could not last much longer.

Or rather, with those burns, I hoped that he would not.

I set down the barrel and knelt, dipping the communal ladle into the water.

Lothar's comrade shook his head.

"I've got a cup here, My Lord," he said, unfastening a silver-mounted cup of horn from his belt. "It may take a while to get him to drink."

"What's your name?" I asked quietly, as he dunked his cup in the barrel.

"Fingal Son of Frithjof, My Lord."

"Drink some yourself, Fingal," I told him. "All of us have earned it."

He hesitated, then quickly drained the cup. Fingal dipped his cup again and turned back to Lothar. Cautiously he put one hand behind Lothar's head to raise it, bringing the cup to the wounded Man's lips.

"Go on about your duties," I said to the soldier who stood by the barrel, eyeing Lothar's burned form with a horrified look on his face. Then I added, "No, wait." I dunked the ladle and thirstily emptied it.

I nodded to the soldier, and he hefted the barrel, heading south along the wall.

I'd only just realised how thirsty I was. I hadn't drunk any when the water-carriers came before, which I knew had been ludicrously stupid of me. My father and all my teachers of old would have shaken their heads in disgust if they'd known of it. Even Steward's Heirs cannot survive without water. It was not as if I would help the cause of my Men by depriving myself in the misguided effort to leave more water for them.

The thought occurred to me that the water tasted better than it ever would have done in my previous battles, no matter how thirsty I might have been.

The water supply of Cair Andros comes from the River, the well in the fortress courtyard striking down all the way through the rock to the River Cave beneath the island. It seemed as though the Anduin itself had sent me its bounty, to replenish my strength.

"Do you have time to talk a bit?" Svip asked timidly, alternating his gaze between the wounded Lothar and me.

"Yes," I said. "Let's find a seat." I glanced once more at Fingal and his dying comrade, then led Svip to an unoccupied stretch of wall.

I sank down by the parapet. Svip sat beside me. The River water I had just drunk seemed to dance like magical healing elixir through my veins.

I looked over at Svip, and found him also looking at me. His expression was troubled, as if he were struggling to say something but could not think how to put it into words.

Again I wondered if he regretted becoming involved in Gondor's troubles. If he wished he were back at home right now, in his snug little house under the water.

"How are you doing?" I asked him.

"Fine," he said quietly. He watched me for a moment longer with that unhappy look, then he went on. "I was just at the – the building where you tend the sick and wounded."

"The House of Healing."

He nodded. "Yes. Thorolf's still in there. He's got a bad fever. The Man in charge told me that Orc arrow was probably poisoned."

"Damn," I whispered, leaning my head back against the parapet. I sat there unmoving for a moment, feeling the comforting solidity of the stones against my head. Then I turned to Svip again. "Did you get to speak with Thorolf?" I asked, then added, "_Is_ he speaking?"

"Yes, he's speaking. He asked about you and the others, if you were all right. And he keeps swearing about how he didn't see that Orc who shot him. He tried to get out of bed, but he got dizzy and nearly fell over and the Man in charge said he'd set an armed guard over him if he didn't promise to stay lying down."

"Damnation." I thought that Thorolf had probably an even chance of surviving; that is, if any of us survived this. The poison had not been of the most virulent kind that Orcs are known to use, or he would have been paralysed within seconds of the arrow piercing his skin, and dead minutes later.

"Boromir," Svip began haltingly, "if he – if any of them – I don't think that I – that is, I mean, I can't – "

He was interrupted by a shout.

"Here they come again!"

I sprang to my feet.

The enemy had a new tactic. The destruction of one of their catapults must have convinced them that firing on the harbour wall was no longer practicable. They had moved the other catapult that had been bombarding us along the wall. Their two remaining siege engines were now both dedicated to the task of lobbing boulders at the tower by the harbour's mouth.

And both of them, I thought, must be out of range of our catapult crews in the fortress. And the walkway along the harbour battlements was too narrow to support our catapults, even had we managed to move them onto the wall before the enemy battered us into the next Age.

Firing on the tower was not the only feature of their strategy. Out of the dark came rank after rank of boats, heading for the harbour's mouth.

"Trumpeter!" I bellowed. "Give the harbour catapults the command to fire."

This new assault, I thought, gave us a good deal more to fear. From the layout of the harbour, fewer of us could get clear shots at them than when they attacked all along the wall. The best vantage point to fire from was now the tower – the same tower that was being pummelled by boulders.

I yelled again for the trumpeter, commanding the Men on the east wall to move forward to their tower. There, at least, they could get closer to the attackers, without too great risk from the enemy's catapults.

"West wall!" I shouted. "One Man remain on guard at every third embrasure. The rest, move forward. Concentrate your fire on any boat nearing the harbour mouth. Five Men, to the tower. I want the Men on the tower replaced every five minutes; no one is to remain there longer."

I turned to tell Svip that he should return to the fortress. He was no longer at my side, but I saw him running toward me, carrying a bow in one hand and a stocked quiver in the other.

"You can use these," he said breathlessly, holding them out to me. "They belong to the Man with the burns. I asked the other one if you could use them; he said it would be all right."

"Thank you," I said solemnly, accepting Lothar's quiver and bow. I glanced to where Lothar lay, and saw that Fingal had taken up position on guard at the embrasure.

As I shouldered the quiver, I said, "Go back to the fortress, Svip. There's not much you can do here. The battlement here isn't wide enough for a horse to fight on it properly."

Svip shook his head. "No," he said quickly. "I'll stay. I can still hand out arrows." Before I could say more he set out at a run, to catch up with one of the Men with the satchels of arrows.

I hissed in a breath through my teeth. I felt like having Svip tied up and sending a Man to carry him back to the fortress. I had to forcibly remind myself, again, that Svip was not a child. He was not a child, nor was he even formally under my command. His decisions were his own.

That would be no comfort, I thought, if his decisions got him killed.

I ran to join the others, a long line of Men along the inner edge of the battlement. The braziers had been moved to stand behind every fourth Man. As I joined the line, I held my nocked arrow in the brazier flame, the fabric at the arrowhead's base swiftly catching alight.

The cursed dusk hung over the harbour mouth, the enemy boats visible only when they were illumined by the tower braziers, and when our arrows hit home. I hoped that some of the Men could see better than I. To be sure, I was near the far end of the line. The Men who stood closer should be better able to see their targets. But it stuck in my craw that I should have to be firing so nearly blind, as if I were some ancient grandfather dragged out of his armchair for the last-ditch defence of Gondor.

There might be many such in days to come, I knew, if this advance were not halted before it reached Minas Tirith.

I could scarcely see our attackers, but I did see when a new threat drove toward us.

A craft larger than the others of their fleet loomed beside the west tower. In the vague fiery light I saw figures moving upon it. I thought I saw one of them stand and throw something over the side. The next moment, others along the boat were doing the same. I did not comprehend what they might be up to, until a Man near me murmured, "they're dropping anchors. They've got anchors, all of them."

I lit my next arrow and fired. As I reached into the quiver again, I heard another voice inquire irritably, "what are they doing? Are they trying to scale the tower?"

It certainly seemed that a large number of the figures were now lifting something, some long, dark shape that might be a ladder. But metal though they were, none of their siege ladders we had seen thus far had required so many to lift them.

Of a sudden I knew what it was. I heard myself whispering, "Bloody hell. They have a battering ram."

In the next instant I repeated the words in a shout. "They have a battering ram. Concentrate your fire on their westernmost boat." The trumpeter repeated my order to the eastern wall.

They should have crumpled under that sustained fire. The boat indeed caught alight, and in the brief glare before it was extinguished, I saw the explanation for why the Orcs did not fall.

He who had planned this assault was no stranger to military tactics, for a defensive shell had been constructed about the Orcs at the battering ram, out of their comrades' thick, fireproof shields. Around the Orcs at the ram, the others massed in a rough but effective tortoise formation. To the sides and above, the shields locked together, our arrows bouncing harmlessly away as though they were but children's toys.

I saw their craft rock as the battering ram crew charged to the prow. I gritted my teeth as I fired, wishing the damned boat would capsize. The ram smashed into the tower wall, low above the waterline, with a sickening thud.

For the moment, the tower held. On the wildly rocking boat, the Orcs moved back for another run.

The crews at our harbour catapults were firing for all they were worth. But to hit that boat would be a near-impossible shot. It was so near to the tower that a minute error of trajectory could send our own shot careening into the tower's wall, and do the enemy's work for them.

In our hail of arrows, the battering ram boat again caught fire. As I sighted along my arrow, I saw one Orc fall, his shield tumbling into the water. I fired. Silhouetted as inky shadows in the light of their burning boat, the Orcs at the ram charged.

With a terrible, groaning crash, the ram breached the wall.

In the next instant, many things happened at once.

A shot from the harbour catapults told, slamming a moment too late into the battering ram boat's stern. The boat reared upward at the prow, dark figures of Orcs flying in all directions. The ram with Orcs still clinging to it vanished in the water. I saw several Orcs leap for the tower and start climbing into the breach their ram had torn. I took aim and fired at one of these, but I do not know if my arrow reached him or not. Whether fatally weakened by the blow it had suffered, or simply through coincidence, the tower did not withstand the next shots from their catapults upon the shore.

Stone blocks erupted at us, and in a cataclysm of sound like the cry of the dying Númenor, the tower shattered.

Almost a third of the tower crumbled in that blow. Along the wall, Men were flung prostrate by the concussion, or threw themselves down to escape the fusillade of stone. I kept my feet, fighting to see through the flying rock dust and the dark.

As the first dust sank through the air, I saw that the entire tower roof was gone. There was no movement; no sign of our Men who'd been posted on the roof, nor of any making their way out from within the tower itself. The Orcs who'd been crawling into the tower had disappeared, nor was there any trace of the battering ram boat and its crew.

In the fitful light of flaming arrows and the braziers on the walls, the chain across the harbour mouth tore free from the splintered tower. With what seemed like ponderous slowness, though I'm sure it can only have taken an instant, the chain swung downward and plummeted into the water.

_It's done_, I thought. _We've nothing left but to retreat or die_.


	10. Chapter Ten: The Siege of Cair Andros co...

_Chapter Ten: The Siege of Cair Andros_ (_continued_)

The enemy's fleet surged forward, past the place where the chain had sunk and into the harbour.

Along both walls, we still fired on them, arrows raining on the Orcs in a downpour of flame. I saw two boats flounder as they hit the submerged wrecks placed at locations about the harbour, to arrest just such intruders who did not know the course by which to win safely through. The Men at our catapults yet fired, at least three more enemy craft sinking as catapult shots hewed them down.

"All Men," I yelled, "both walls! Independent fire at will!" The command was barely necessary, for most of the Men at the embrasures had already run to join us, adding their fire to that of their companions.

There were too many of them. All of us knew it, even as we fired on. There were too many, their boats turning to right or left toward the quayside, getting out from the line of the catapults' fire. There were too many, leaping from their boats and racing along the quay, toward the tower stairs that would give them entry to the wall.

Through the shouts, the whirr of arrows and the catapult fire, trumpet notes rang from the fortress behind us.

It was a call welcome in the circumstances, but one that I ever loathe to hear: the command to retreat.

"Back to the fortress!" I shouted. "Back to the fortress! Now!"

The retreat was orderly enough, as such manoeuvres go. Men ran along the upward-sloping harbour wall, toward the north end of the island, and the fortress. As they ran, most dragged arrows from their quivers. At every few paces they would stop and turn to fire, then race on once more.

The first Men to reach each of the towers slammed closed the heavy wooden doors and barred them, then dragged into place anything available to help block the doors: overturned braziers, Orc corpses, even the bodies of our slain comrades.

The Men at the catapults kept firing, as long as any Orc boat moved within range. As the last of the boats spewed its crew onto the quay, a new bonfire sprang up to light the darkness. The catapult Men set their own siege engines afire, to deny them to the Orcs. Now they sprinted up the Great Stairs to the fortress, but Orcs raced close at their heels.

I halted my retreat, to fire down on the Orcs that were nearest to those six Men racing up the stairs. All around me, others stopped and did the same.

"Right," I yelled, when no more Orcs moved on the Great Stairs. "They've got a chance now. Now get moving! Go!"

As I ran on, I found Svip. He stood at the edge of the wall, struggling with a bow that stood as tall as he did. He had the arrow nocked, but the reach of his arms was too narrow for him to both keep hold of the bow and pull the bowstring back far enough to fire.

"Svip!" I shouted. "Damn it, what are you doing? Come on!"

He cast a desperate, angry look at me, then he flung down the bow with a furious shout in a language I did not understand.

"Come on!" I shouted again.

He did not at once obey. Instead he drew forth the short sword he had at his belt, that he'd carried with him ever since we left his home beneath Rauros. Holding it like a miniature javelin, he hurled it down from the wall.

I scarce believed what I saw. The sword caught a running Orc in the chest, and I saw the Orc fall.

I knelt by Svip, grabbing the water being's shoulders. "Svip, we have to go," I urged. "We have to go, now."

There was a wildness in his gaze as he stared at me. Then abruptly he twisted free and ran. I scrambled to my feet and followed him, muttering something under my breath about damned stubborn halflings who don't know when to retreat.

Not much farther along the wall, Svip and I halted again. Svip's steps faltered and stopped as he came to Fingal Son of Frithjof, and the burned form of Lothar.

Fingal stood by Lothar's prostrate body, grimly firing down at the Orcs on the quay below. Several other soldiers had stopped and were yelling at Fingal, pleas for him to come on.

"Fingal!" one shouted. "Damn you, Man, let's go!" He seized Fingal's shoulder, but the other Man shook him off, turning on him with a look of such wild rage that the soldier took a step away with a whispered oath.

"Fingal," I said, stepping up to him. "They're right. You have to leave." Svip moved close to my side, his own anger seemingly forgotten as he glanced back and forth between Lothar and Fingal.

The latter stood now with his bow lowered. His breath came in gasps that were almost sobs.

Fingal looked down at Lothar's still-breathing form.

"If we carry him," Fingal murmured, "it'll hurt him too much. There's no way we can get him to safety that won't be worse than – "

He swallowed back the words and looked at me, hopeless grief in his eyes.

"I should finish it for him, My Lord," he whispered. "I should, I know that I should, but I – I can't."

I met his gaze, and nodded.

"I will do it," I told him. "You go on, now. Go."

Fingal swallowed again. His mouth twisted in the wraith of a smile.

"Yes, My Lord," Fingal whispered.

Fingal's other comrades had turned and hurried onward. Fingal still stood there, as I knelt beside Lothar and took his unburned hand in mine.

Svip also was waiting for me. I turned my head and saw him watching me, with a frightened, uncertain gaze.

"You go on as well, Svip," I ordered quietly. "I'll catch up with you. I swear it. Now go."

Fingal Son of Frithjof shouldered his bow. Then he bowed to Svip. "Let us go, My Lord Svip," he said. "We'll go on ahead; the Lord Boromir will follow us. Will you come with me?"

Staring into my face, Svip nodded. He turned and hurried to Fingal's side.

The Man cast a last look at me and at Lothar. Then he and Svip set out along the wall.

I drew the dagger from my belt.

It was the dagger I had taken from the Orc I slew by Svip's house, below the Falls. I hated to end Lothar's life with an Orc blade. But I told myself that it would not matter to him.

I thought that Lothar's eyes were closed. At least I could not see any sign that they were open, amid the burned flesh of his face.

He breathed in a tortured gasp. I let go of his hand, and as gently as I could, I put my hand on his chest to hold him still.

I did not know if he heard me. I hoped that he did not. But I said, "Lothar. You have fought bravely. We will win this victory, Lothar. We will win, and Gondor will be saved."

I drove the dagger into his heart.

As I stood, a swift glance told me I was the only Man left alive on either harbour wall. Across on the east wall, I saw Men scrambling up the tower ladder to the safety of the fortress. Farther back along that wall, hulking figures fought their way through the door of the intermediate tower, and the blockage heaped before it.

Ahead of me, several Men were scaling the western ladder to the fortress. No Orcs had yet reached this wall, but the sound of heavy bodies hurling themselves against the intermediate tower door assured me they were not far away.

I ran. As I raced past the intermediate tower, I saw an axe-head break through splintering wood.

"My Lord!" came a shout that I recognised as Fingal's voice. "My Lord! Come on!"

Fingal and Svip clung to rungs of the ladder leading to the door of the Turgon Tower. Svip was a few rungs above the soldier, but both were paused, looking back at me. Above them, I saw two archers standing at the ready in the open doorway.

As I ran on, I heard the door shatter behind me.

"Hurry up!" Svip yelled in a voice of panic. "Hurry!"

"Get climbing, then!" I shouted back at the two of them. "Move!"

They moved. Svip was launching himself through the tower door, between the two archers, as I leapt to the lower rungs and started to climb.

I saw Fingal's feet vanish somewhere above me, just as both archers fired. The arrows zinged past me. Far closer than I liked, I heard an Orcish howl of pain.

The archers in the doorway readied their next shots, while two more arrows sped from the arrow-slit windows at either side of the door.

The ladder shook and jolted with the weight of an Orc springing to its rungs.

I reached the door. Several pairs of hands hauled me inside. I stumbled to my feet, finding myself standing surrounded by Fingal, Corporal Amandil, the Sergeant of the Tower, and Svip.

The archers in the door fired. Someone yelled, "Get the ladder!"

The others and I seized the ladder and heaved it upward. We yanked it into the room, as the two archers at the arrow-slits fired again, and those at the door flung their bows aside to leap at the door and slam it closed.

The shouts and jeers of the Orcs on the harbour wall of a sudden sounded very far away. But all of us knew that they were not so.

The two archers threw the bar into place across the door, then retrieved their bows and crossed to take their places at the next two unoccupied arrow-slits.

I looked around at my comrades. The Sergeant of the Tower had a grim and shaken look about him. Amandil had cuts and scrapes all over him, I supposed from flying rock in the destruction of the harbour tower, but he grinned at me through his mask of dust and blood. Fingal was as wan as any ghost. Svip looked up at me with a faint, uneasy smile.

"You're all right, Svip?" I asked.

He nodded hastily, and said, "I'll go check on Thorolf." Before I could answer, the water creature had fled.

We held the fortress, through all that black afternoon. On Eradan's orders, the Men who'd defended the harbour went off-duty, while the curtain wall between harbour and fortress was manned by troops who had not had so near a brush with the enemy.

Eradan left one catapult each on the west and east fortress walls, and ordered the others moved to the curtain wall. There they joined the archers and the soldiers hurling down rocks and boiling oil at our attackers, in holding back the Orc forces' periodic assaults.

I was the one Man whom Eradan did not have the authority to order off-duty. Wisely, he did not try. While the other defenders of the harbour trooped to the barracks, I conferred briefly with Captain Eradan, then leant my aid to moving the catapults. That completed, I remained on the curtain wall.

On the shores, the Orcs' drumming still sounded through the dark. I was sure that they did it for no other reason than to wear on our nerves, and in that they succeeded. As I paced the wall, ordering myself to ignore that damnable drumming, I tried to determine the enemy's next move.

Every few minutes scattered bands of them made a rush at the fortress, to be beaten back by the Men on the wall. Since the fall of the harbour they had not yet launched a concerted attack. Their captain was clearly giving them some rest and recreation, as reward for their capture of the harbour. From the wall we could see through the dusk as Orcs ransacked the harbour buildings, dragged forth all the food, drink, weaponry and stored goods that they could find, and set the buildings alight.

They made no such move against the twelve of our ships moored in the harbour. That, I told myself, was more cause for alarm than any pillaging they might indulge in.

Those ships would make a more than worthy exchange for their mangy cockle-boats that we had sunk.

Perhaps, I thought, that had been their plan all along. Perhaps that explained why they'd gone out of their way to assault Cair Andros, when they could have avoided it entirely and proceeded in force to Osgiliath.

They were after the ships. They wanted our ships, and our deaths were merely an added attraction.

With the Cair Andros fleet they could make their way downriver in all ease and safety. And they could approach Osgiliath under cover of our flag. They would hope to be upon our Men before the ruse was discovered.

I told myself that the Men of Gondor were not so easily fooled. The Osgiliath garrison would certainly have scouts in the field, who would spot the Orcs' approach. It would take more than the ships and Gondor's flag to disguise the crewmen's identity.

Yet I was not sure. In this loathed dark, perhaps our ships would indeed give the enemy the advantage that would destroy us.

I nearly sent word to Eradan then and there, commanding that we turn the catapults upon our fleet. But I forced myself to hold back.

Let the enemy make the first move. If they wanted a pause for celebration, to make themselves drunk on victory and hopefully, on the wine stored in the harbour warehouses, then I was happy to oblige them. There would be time enough when they moved to ready the fleet, for us to sink our ships and I hoped, plenty of Orcs along with them.

My path along the curtain wall brought me to a Man who sat against the parapet, his bow clutched in his hands as he gazed into the livid sky. My steps slowed and then ceased entirely, for in that Man who seemed to take no heed of my approach, I recognised Fingal Son of Frithjof.

The soldier looked to have aged decades in the hours since I had seen him. That morn I had thought him my own age or slightly younger. As he sat there staring at the dark, his drawn and haggard face reminded me more of my father.

I cleared my throat and stepped toward him. Fingal turned his head, blinking in surprise.

His distant, lost look was succeeded by alarm. He started to scramble to his feet.

"No," I interposed, "you don't have to get up." The soldier paused in his crouch, with a look of uncertainty that would have been comical in other circumstances.

I sat down a few feet away from him. "Sit," I ordered. As he warily sat again, I said in an attempt at levity, "Fear not, Fingal Son of Frithjof. I give you the right to sit in my presence, without let or hindrance."

The unfortunate soldier attempted a smile, looking as though he would gladly dispense with my lordly presence. I resolved that I would swiftly be on my way. But the events of the morning, I felt, had made it my duty to speak with him.

"You do know that you're off-duty?" I inquired.

"Aye, My Lord. Might as well be off-duty here as in the barracks. I'll not be sleeping, either place."

The silence that descended made me wish I had not thought it my duty to speak with him after all. At last I asked him, "You'd known Lothar a long time?"

He looked up at the darkness again. "Aye," he said, his voice raw. "He's my brother-in-law. All of us grew up together." A great sigh seemed to gust forth from Fingal's very soul. "Valar," he whispered. "I'll have to bring the news to my sister."

The grief in his face and voice called words from me that I'd have been better advised not to speak. "I'll visit her, if you think it would be of help," I offered. "If there's anything I can do – "

Fingal stared at me, his look of dismay more eloquent than any speech. He awkwardly forced out the words, "That's very good of you, My Lord, I'm sure she'd be honoured – "

"Forgive me," I interrupted, feeling that I'd revealed myself as the worst kind of ass. _What the blazes were you thinking_? I demanded of myself. _That basking in your glory would make a widow forget her pain_? "It was idiotic of me. You'll oblige me if you will forget it."

"It's not that, My Lord," Fingal assured me hastily. "It's good of you to offer. It's only that – she'd want to clean the house for you, My Lord. And cook something special. She'd think she couldn't let you inside without dusting the place top to bottom, and she'd be spending all her coin to buy the best for your dinner …"

Fingal paused, with a sickly smile of apology. "She'll be in a bad enough way when she gets this news, My Lord. I don't want her thinking she has to cook and clean for the Captain-General into the bargain."

"I understand," I said bitterly. "I am a fool, and you've done well to remind me of it."

I stood up. Fingal sprang to his feet, reaching out his hand as though to grab my arm but then thinking better of it.

"My Lord," he said. "Please do not think that. I thank you for offering. Sir – if you'd write to her instead. It would give her something to take comfort in – without fearing that her house would be unworthy of you."

I managed a smile. "Of course," I said. "What is your sister's name?"

"Branwyn Daughter of Frithjof, My Lord. Number Six Carpenters' Street, on the Third Level."

"Very well. Do not fear, I will not write any details of your brother-in-law's death. That is your choice, to tell her of it or no. But what I write will be the truth. That he died in honour, as a valiant Son of Gondor."

"Thank you, My Lord." The soldier looked as though he did not know whether to be relieved or miserable. "Sir – I beg your pardon for offending you."

"The fault was mine. I grieve for your loss, Fingal Son of Frithjof."

He bowed and I strode away, wishing furiously that the Orcs would make another assault. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to hide from my embarrassment by finding some foe to kill.

_If ever you speak of this with your sister, Fingal_, I thought, _you can assure her that the great and mighty can be great and mighty fools_.

_How_, I wondered, _can Men so wise as my father and Faramir have such an idiotic son and brother_?

Night sank on us sullenly, with no stars or moon to pierce its blackness.

The enemy did not oblige me by launching any major attack. Even their sporadic raids on the wall grew more infrequent. As the murky afternoon crept into night, the Orcs rowed a longboat into the harbour and unloaded a second battering ram. But though they moved the ram into the shelter of the burned-out barracks, near the foot of the Great Stairs, they did not yet make any effort to smash through the fortress gate.

I leaned on the parapet above the gate, frowning at the lights of Orc campfires and the smouldering harbour buildings.

What were they waiting for? I wondered. Until they thought they had worn our courage thin, with the wait and with their accursed drumming?

Or until some reinforcement came that they believed would assure their victory? Reinforcement perhaps from the black riders of the air, who would descend within our fortress walls in slaughter and in terror?

As I scowled at the harbour, I heard familiar soft, slapping footsteps along the wall. I turned to see Svip walking cautiously toward me.

"Hello," Svip said.

I nodded. "Hello."

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Waiting," I said. A rueful smile tugged at my mouth as I added, "and thinking dark thoughts."

"Can I wait with you?" The question came out in a tiny, timid voice.

My smile grew more heart-felt. "I would be honoured," I told him. I bowed slightly and gestured to the nearest embrasure. "May I offer you a seat?"

He nodded and held up his arms. I lifted him into the embrasure, striving again to stifle the feeling that I had brought a child with me into this war zone.

Svip huddled in the embrasure, his knees hugged to his chest. As he gazed at the harbour, I thought that he looked like some whimsical gargoyle. Except that the look on his face was not whimsical.

"How is Thorolf?" I asked him.

"The same, I think. Pretty much. He was sweating awfully when I was there. And shivering. And he was swearing. A lot."

"I don't blame him," I murmured.

The drumming on the shore grew louder. Svip noticed it even as I did, turning his head to squint into the dark.

I asked, "Do you see anything?"

"No," he said, his voice bleak. "They're too far away."

The thought came to me of how very quiet he was. Or at least, of how quiet he was for Svip.

His incessant chatter, the countless questions that I once had found so maddening … I wondered how long it was since I had heard them. And if ever I would hear them again.

"Svip," I said suddenly. "I am sorry to have brought you into this."

"No!" he said, with startling vehemence. "No. You didn't bring me. I brought myself. And I'm glad of it," he insisted. "Only …"

He shook his head. "It's only that it's my first battle. That's all."

I fought to think of what I should say to him. What I could say that might possibly help.

I thought of nothing, and the chance was lost. A soldier hurried toward us and saluted, his face looking absurdly young in the braziers' flickering light.

"My Lord Boromir," he said. "Captain Eradan requests your presence in council, on the Turgon Tower."

"Thank you. I will be there."

As the young soldier made his departure, I turned back to Svip. "Are you coming along?" I asked.

His face seemed to brighten slightly. "Can I?"

"Of course. Come on."

He hopped down from the embrasure before I could reach to lift him down. Together we set out along the wall.

On the roof of the Turgon Tower, Eradan and the officers of his council were waiting when we arrived. Folding camp chairs and a folding canvas table currently piled with rolled-up maps had been carried to the roof, but the officers were making little use of them. Standing or pacing at various points about the tower roof were Eradan himself, his second-in-command Lieutenant Malvelgil, the Ranger Captain Cirion, Harbour Master Lieutenant Herion, and Sergeant Rüdiger the Armourer.

As we climbed to the roof, Eradan was saying bitterly, "We've no chance of victory here, not unless we are reinforced or the enemy walks away. I see no great likelihood of either. I'll not sacrifice our Men to hold an outpost that will be lost whether all of us perish or no."

"Sir," Lieutenant Herion protested, "we are in the position of strength. We've provisions enough to last five times our number for five years. The Orcs cannot get near enough to assault the gate; they've no taste for arrows and boiling oil. They have their plunder. When they find that taking us is biting off more than they can chew, they'll get out while they can – "

"And go where?" I inquired, striding in among them. Amid salutes, bows and murmured greetings, I halted before the uncomfortable-looking Lieutenant Herion. "And go where?" I demanded again, giving him no choice but to meet my eyes.

To Herion's credit, he did not look away. "To Mordor I presume, My Lord," he said stolidly. "Or whatever foul nest they crawled from."

"No," I said. "They will go to Osgiliath. To the Pelennor. To Minas Tirith. Would you have Gondor ravaged whilst we huddle in our fortress with our five years' worth of provisions?"

A blush spread over Herion's face. He snapped to attention, staring into the air above my shoulder. "Sir," Herion said stiffly. "The soldiers of Gondor do not retreat, My Lord."

I wondered in what hyperbole-laden speech he had heard that phrase. I hoped it was not any speech that I had made myself. "I wish that could be true, Lieutenant," I said. "Gondor's soldiers do retreat. They retreat when they can serve their country better by fighting the next battle, than by dying in this one."

"Will you give us your instructions, My Lord?" asked Malvelgil the second-in-command. His voice was calm and respectful, but the glare he cast at Herion showed that he thought this debate had gone on long enough.

I looked around at all of them. Malvelgil and Herion stood glaring at each other. Cirion leaned against the parapet with his arms crossed on his chest, glowering at the company in general. Sergeant Rüdiger was cleaning his fingernails with his dagger's point. Watching the others with a preoccupied frown, Captain Eradan stood clutching a rolled-up map that he twisted about in his hands.

A tiny figure amid the grim-faced officers, Svip hung back timidly at the top of the stairs. He looked unsure whether to sit down and watch the show, or to run.

"You all know Svip of Anduin?" I inquired, gesturing toward him. All turned and bowed to Svip, the action forcing Malvelgil and Herion to temporarily break off scowling at each other. "Have a seat, Svip," I told him. "Sit, gentlemen. I believe there are chairs enough for all."

I sat in one of the canvas chairs and Svip scuttled across the tower to hop into a chair next to mine. When the others had taken seats about the table, I said, fixing my gaze on each of them in turn, "We will abandon the island. The questions are when, and in what manner." I turned to Eradan. "Am I right in assuming you intend using the tunnels?"

"Yes, My Lord," Eradan replied. "If we take the main tunnel to its farthest point south along the shore, we should emerge beyond their lines. At any event, the cove is concealed enough that the main body of our force should be able to remain concealed, while we determine the enemy's positions."

"And the fleet?" I asked. "For there can be no question of leaving it in their hands."

Harbour Master Herion stirred unhappily in his chair. I suddenly saw a reason for his insistence that Gondor's soldiers never retreat. As Harbour Master, it was _his_ fleet that we were contemplating destroying.

Eradan nodded. "We have lost thirty-four Men this day." His eyes were dark with bitterness and sorrow as he added quietly, "Pending further reports from the Chief Healer. We are left with approximately fifty ill and wounded – though some of those will be able to fight if needed – and one hundred and seventy fit for duty. I recommend that sixty of the latter take the tunnel from the armoury to the harbour entrance, while the rest of the garrison proceeds south to the cove. The sixty will fire all ships of the fleet but one, and make their escape in that final ship. They will rendezvous with the main force at the cove, and all of us will proceed by river to Osgiliath."

As he finished, Eradan cast a quick, uncertain glance at me, like a schoolboy who'd just recited an answer he feared was entirely wrong. I wondered if I should get Faramir to talk with him, and convince him he need not be constantly second-guessing himself around me. Though if the conversation were to occur, I supposed I really had to speak with him myself.

"The plan is a good one," I said. "But we do not need sixty Men for the strike on the harbour. Ten will be sufficient for our purposes, and will have a better chance of reaching the ships unseen. Even the largest of the fleet can be manoeuvred by six Men, for as short a time as it takes to reach the cove. We will take a supply of lamp oil to douse the other ships. Four archers on our ship will set the other vessels afire, while the other six steer us out of the harbour. I will command the strike force; I presume you gentlemen can suggest candidates to make up the other nine."

Sergeant Rüdiger put in, "With respect, My Lord, you must not keep all of the glory to yourself – or all of the peril. There'll be enough of both to share among more than ten."

"Aye," agreed Cirion. "Ten Men is not enough. Take twenty, at the least. The more archers, the less time needed to set the fleet alight, and the sooner they can make their escape."

"My Lord," Herion the Harbour Master protested, "are we not thinking in the wrong direction? Why divide our force at all, save to get the wounded to safety? Let the main body of our troops attack the harbour! We'll have the advantage of surprise, and I doubt not the Orcs will be sleeping off our wine. We can recapture the island and the ships, and if you choose not to hold the island longer, then we will head south with all of the fleet. The ships will do our country more good at Osgiliath, than as ashes in Cair Andros Harbour."

I was tempted. For a moment I pictured the heroic scene, straight out of my childhood tales, as we slaughtered Orcs by the hundreds and then sailed downriver, sunlight gleaming on our banners.

Only we could expect no sunlight. Nor, I told myself, could we count on victory.

As I debated it, Lieutenant Malvelgil cried out, "We must not sacrifice our Men for the sake of our ships and our pride! Today we lost fifteen percent of our forces, with less than an hour of hand-to-hand combat. How do you think we will do when we throw all of our manpower against them? What percentage do you think we will lose then?"

"A smaller percentage by far," yelled Lieutenant Herion. "Orcs will have less luck facing our swordsmen, than they had lobbing missiles out of the dark!"

Malvelgil sneered, "The Orcs you've fought must have been toothless with age, or else you've been wiping out camps of their females. I regret to tell you that _some_ Orcs can give our swordsmen their money's worth."

Eradan put a restraining hand on his second-in-command's arm. He said, "We are outnumbered twelve to one. That is a conservative estimate of their forces in the harbour, and takes no account of the unknown numbers that may still be upon the shores. I will face such odds gladly, My Lord, when there is no better course. But when we have a choice that will preserve more of us for Gondor's defence, then that is the road I will take."

Not without regret, I turned my back on Herion's plan. "We will send the majority through the main tunnel," I declared. "I will lead a force of twenty in the raid upon the harbour, since you gentlemen prefer that number. We must move as soon as is possible. I do not wish the enemy to force our hand by setting out with the fleet before we've bestirred ourselves, or by launching a full-scale assault on the gate while we're still trooping into our tunnels. Nor should we launch our attack before the main party is clear of the fortress." I asked of Captain Eradan, "How soon can we be ready?"

He contemplated a moment before stating, "An hour, My Lord. In that time we can make what preparations we require, and have all of our Men in the tunnel."

"Good. The harbour strike force will man the wall until the others have got clear. Lieutenant Herion," I continued, startling the scowling Harbour Master as I turned toward him, "we will need the best rowers and steersmen for this mission. Choose the six Men you believe most fitted for the task, and have them report here to me."

For an instant Herion looked as though he would protest once more. Then he stood and bowed. "Yes, My Lord."

As Herion left the tower, I stood, the others getting to their feet along with me. "I thank you, gentlemen," I said. "We need thirteen Men more. It appears that the skills of the Rangers would be of use in this task. Captain Cirion, will you take charge of selecting the rest of the team, and send them to me?"

"Willingly, My Lord," Cirion said, bowing.

Before the Ranger could depart, Eradan put in with a smile, "He need only find twelve Men, My Lord. I volunteer for your command. If you will have me."

I smiled back at him, though I had to point out, "I suspect the scholars of strategy would tell us it is unwise to send our two highest-ranking officers on the same perilous mission."

"They probably would. But I also recall you telling me that you would never send your Men anywhere you would not go yourself. Besides," he added, his smile growing melancholy, "ship's captains have ever had the right to be last off their sinking ship. Should not the commander of a fortress have the same privilege?"

"I can vouch for Captain Eradan's archery, My Lord," Cirion contributed. "He'll be no detriment to your command."

"Very well," I said. "Complete what tasks require your attention, and report back to me."

Lieutenant Malvelgil opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted, "Do not you think of volunteering, Lieutenant. We need you commanding the main force."

Malvelgil sighed and said, "Aye, My Lord."

Svip had hopped down from his chair as the rest of us stood, and now he tugged on my arm. Before Svip could speak, Sergeant Rüdiger was saying, "I'll not embarrass us both by volunteering, My Lord. My damnable bow-fingers have decided to get arthritic on me. But I wish that I could be with you."

I smiled and shook hands with him. "I wish you could too."

Lieutenant Malvelgil offered, "You shall have the honour of leaving the fortress last of our column, if you wish it, Sergeant. I can think of none more worthy."

"I do wish it," Rüdiger said. "You need someone reliable bringing up the rear."

The four officers departed. I glanced down at Svip, who was looking up at me with an eager gaze. Not yet willing to hear what I knew he would say, I strode from the tower and took a few steps along the wall. Svip scampered after.

When I stopped, leaning against the parapet and looking back at Svip, he said, "I'm coming, too."

"No, Svip," I said heavily. "Please."

"Why not?" he demanded. "That's why I came here. To be of use."

"Svip, please. Listen to me. Bow to my wishes for this time. I do not want you killed."

"Well? I don't want you killed. Aren't I supposed to be keeping an eye on you?"

I felt like grabbing him up and shaking some sense into him. Instead I knelt before him.

"I promise you, Svip. I will take the greatest care I can. I will do my best to come out of this alive."

I wanted to promise him that I wouldn't get killed. But I knew too well that that promise can be impossible to keep.

"Please," I went on. "I'll have a better chance of surviving if I know you are safe, than if I'm constantly checking to see if you're getting slain."

Svip stared down at his feet. Finally he said, without looking up, "All right. I'm coming the next time, though."

Relief washed over me. "All right," I agreed, though I knew I would probably regret that promise, as well.

He hesitantly looked up, then before either of us could speak, Svip had flung himself into my arms. An instant later he broke the embrace, stepping back and saying hastily, "I'll go help with moving the wounded."

He ran.

Ere long, troop movement throughout the fortress showed that Eradan and the others had set our plan into action. With some grumbling, most of it hastily quieted as they passed me, the Men made their way down from the wall. They were soon replaced by those Herion and Cirion had sent, hurrying one by one up the stairs in the Turgon Tower.

The majority I recognised. Cirion had assigned himself to the mission, along with five of his Rangers who had not been on the journey from Lilla Howe, and three who had: young Holgar, Buslai, and Finn.

Finn and Buslai I'd not seen since we arrived at the fortress. When I inquired if they felt recovered enough for this mission, Buslai grimaced and said, "I should jolly well hope so, sir, after all the sleep we got."

Finn explained, "Captain Cirion sent us to the barracks when we got here, My Lord. Told us to get some rest. I guess we did. We were sleeping so hard we didn't even notice when the battle started. When the others couldn't wake us they sent word to the healers, and left. Healers couldn't figure anything out, either, but then seven hours or so into the battle, we just woke up. And wondered where everyone else'd got to."

I stationed my troop along the curtain wall, with Eradan at the eastern tower and the others posted at embrasures between his position and mine. We took pot shots at the occasional bands of Orcs who made runs at the wall; enough action on our part, I hoped, to maintain the illusion that the fortress was still fully manned. In the courtyard behind us, the line of soldiers passed steadily into the ground floor of the Turgon Tower, with the entrance to the tunnel within.

The stretcher-bearers with the wounded went first. I sought Svip's small form amongst them, but I could not pick him out in the darkness.

The eventualities I dreaded did not come to pass. There was no concerted assault while our Men still marched to the tunnel; no move by the Orcs to take the fleet and depart.

Yet activity on the quay did increase. Groups of them emerged from the shadow of burned-out buildings and the walls, to trudge about collecting the bodies of the slain and dumping them into the harbour. Others started loading chests and barrels, the plunder they had gleaned from our harbour warehouses, into one of our ships moored nearest to the buildings.

I smiled grimly as it occurred to me that their commander had likely set them those tasks so they would not have the opportunity for getting drunk.

The lone call of a horn sounded behind us.

I turned and looked down. The dim light of torches and braziers showed Sergeant Rüdiger, standing alone near the tower's entrance.

The old Sergeant gave a jaunty gesture, between a wave and a salute. He strode into the tower and out of our sight.

I looked back at my Men along the wall. The few nearest, I could see, had their gazes fixed on me. So, too, did their fellows down the line, though all I saw in the dark was the pale blur of their faces.

_Time to go_, I thought. With a nod to the nearest Man, one of the boatmen that Harbour Master Herion had sent, I walked into the top room of the tower and started down its spiral stairs.

As we trooped downward, I wondered how long it would take the enemy to realise that the wall was unmanned.

_Once we're inside the tunnel_, I thought, _the sooner they figure it out, the better_. I would not object if the Orcs cared to assault the fortress in force, perhaps finally try out their battering ram. I was in favour of any plan that got them away from the harbour, attacking an empty fortress while we crept about destroying the fleet.

The ground floor room looked well-ordered and unremarkable, with nothing to hint that an entire garrison had just marched across its floor. The last Men into the tunnel had pulled the flagstone securely into place behind them, and the room seemed innocent of their passing.

As we strode from the tower and across the courtyard, I smiled at the thought of the Orcs' faces, when they breached the gate at last and found us vanished into air.

The deserted armoury was a contrast to the last time I had set foot there, when I took Svip to join Sergeant Rüdiger's command. By the open trap door to the cellar stood a wheelbarrow filled with our troop's supplies: forty earthenware bottles that normally held water or wine, filled now with lamp oil. I took two by their leathern straps and slung them over my shoulder.

"Each Man take two bottles," I commanded. "I regret to say they've no wine in them, but we'll remedy that when we reach Minas Tirith."

While the Men chuckled at my obligatory joke, I continued, "We will exit the tunnel through the west harbour tower, unless we find that exit blocked from the tower's fall. In that case we'll proceed to the east tower. Our escape vessel will be the _Isildur_, the nearest ship to the towers. We will take to the water as soon as possible. Corporal Njal and your Men, you will proceed directly to the ship and ready it for departure. Get the cooking pot lit; we will need it to light our arrows. The last seven Men in line will take charge of dousing the ships on whichever side of the harbour we emerge on; the rest of us will swim to those on the other side. Each Man take one ship; get it doused and if you've any oil left, use it on the next ship along. As soon as you've used up your oil, get back to the _Isildur_. Hold your fire until all of us reach the ship, or until I give the command. Don't risk getting close to the enemy. Better that we miss dousing some of the ships, than be discovered too soon. I will take it as a personal insult if you don't all come out of this alive. Are there any questions?"

Hearing none, I said, "Then let us go crash our guests' party."

I climbed down the ladder to the armoury cellar. I rolled aside a certain barrel of arrows that stood by the wall, then I and the two next Men who climbed down seized hold of the iron ring in the flagstone beneath. Together, not without some cursing, we dragged the stone free of the tunnel entrance.

A breath of chill air escaped upward, cooling the sweat on my face. I could almost imagine that it was a breeze, something I had not felt since our enemy's darkness sank upon us.

"Bloody hell," one of my comrades was muttering, kicking at the flagstone we had just hauled loose. "I hope none of us ever has to escape through here by himself."

I descended the steep stone stairs into the tunnel. After a brief pause to light the torch that I found in the usual bracket on the tunnel's wall, I set out into darkness barely heavier than the murk hanging over Cair Andros. The others followed.

We proceeded in near silence, punctuated by our footfalls. As we moved into the tunnel, the ever-present din of the Orcs' drumming finally faded out of hearing.

It is said that Men of former days tended to be shorter of stature, though I scarcely believe one would see a difference if Men of today stood side by side with our grandfathers who fortified Cair Andros. Still, those tunnels sometimes make me wonder. The roofs can be uncomfortably low, and the walls in places are certainly closer together than I would have built them.

I ducked to avoid a dip in the ceiling. As I did so, my mind wandered to the first time I had seen the tunnels of Cair Andros.

On that occasion, the low ceilings were not a problem.

My father had brought me with him on one of his tours of inspection of the frontier garrisons, when I was ten years old. One of the officers made the mistake of mentioning a tunnel entrance while I was within earshot. I snuck back to that room, figured out the secret door's mechanism, and spent the rest of the day exploring the pathways beneath the fortress.

My father was not amused. Particularly since he'd had a good quarter of the garrison waste three hours or more in searching for me.

I received, of course, a rather lengthy lecture on responsibility, and as punishment my father required that I be at every single meeting he attended for the rest of that inspection tour. I had to turn in written reports to him on each meeting – fortunately he did not require that they be terribly good reports. Only good enough to prove that I'd been there, and that I hadn't been asleep.

But I did have a fun day exploring the tunnels.

We passed the stairs that led up to another hidden entrance, within the harbour guardhouse. It would not be long before we reached our destination. I shoved my mind away from reminiscences, and once more ran through our plan of attack.

_It ought to work_, I told myself. _It ought to work – if there are not too many Orcs near the tower, if they don't spot us too soon, if they do not attack us in force while we're still swimming about splashing the ships with lamp oil_.

I remembered a favourite saying of my father's that he used to rebuke those he thought were being overly pessimistic. _Do not lose the battle for us before we have drawn our swords_.

The tunnel branched to the right, to another set of stairs. The stone above them opened into the ruined west tower.

I thought, _Now to see whether the entrance is buried under rubble_.

I handed the torch that I held to one of the Men behind me, and said to another, "You're with me."

The stairs were just wide enough for the two of us to climb them. Reaching upward, we gave an experimental shove on the flagstone above.

It shifted.

With images playing through my mind of climbing from the hole into a circle of waiting Orcs, we heaved on the stone again.

The scrape of stone on stone sounded abominably loud as we manoeuvred the entrance stone aside. No shouts or whizzing of arrows followed; not yet.

Again we heard the sound from which I'd been so glad to be free for that brief time: the Orcs' eternal drumbeats.

I whispered to my comrade, "Wait here." With my hand on my sword hilt, I crept through the hole in the west tower's floor.

Crouching in the shadows, I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the dim, distant light of guttering braziers along the harbour walls. The Orcs must have taken no measures to keep them alight since we had abandoned the harbour. I supposed they could see in the dark well enough not to require them.

Half of the ceiling of this lower room was gone, gaping into the ruins of the upper room that had held the harbour chain's mechanism. The wall to my left was smashed in, a jumble of building stones and wooden ceiling beams hiding the floor. Only the choice of the builders that placed the tunnel entrance at the room's western end had saved it from being buried.

One massive Orc arm thrust out from the rubble, its hand clawing empty air. Near the top of the pile I glimpsed the body of one of our Men, sprawled amid the wooden wreckage fallen from the room above. Those two bodies were all I could see at first glance, but beyond doubt there were more, likely both here below and in the destruction above me. In this tower we had lost more Men than at any other position in the fortress.

I thought of the young Man with whom I'd spoken in the room above, nervously asking me if I thought the enemy would strike here. I scowled at the realisation that I did not really remember what he'd looked like.

Lightish hair, I thought. Freckles.

_Damnation_. _I ought to remember_.

I crept back to the tunnel entrance. "All clear," I whispered to the Man who waited below. "Pass the word to extinguish the torches and follow."

From my vantage point on the fortress wall this tower had looked a promising location for launching our assault. It had not belied its promise. On the side facing the harbour the tower had survived, shielding activity within from the view of our uninvited guests. It should be easy enough to let ourselves down into the water, through the breach torn by the Orc battering ram. Once in the water it was a brief swim to our escape vessel the _Isildur_.

For the rest of the plan, we would just have to hope that the Orcs were not on the alert for any foe swimming toward them.

The shadowy forms of my comrades began emerging from the tunnel. I stole to the heap of rubble and scrambled over it. With a brief glance at the black water only a few feet below, I lowered myself into the harbour.

I was surprised anew by how glorious the water felt, as it rippled against my body with a whisper of homecoming. The cold of it that should have been a shock was instead a welcome refuge from the sullen air hanging over us.

I shook my head in wonder at this latest reminder of how my resurrection had changed me. Then I swam, as cautiously as I could, toward our ships on the east side of the harbour.

I struck out to the east in the shadow of the _Isildur_, its graceful, brightly-painted form barely recognisable in the darkness. A glance behind me showed Corporal Njal and his team who would take charge of the ship, swimming steadily towards it. One of them clung to the back of a comrade who did the swimming for both of them. In his other arm the Man who was not swimming clutched a long bundle that I knew held our supply of arrows. Since our plan was to set the ships alight with flaming arrows, we could scarce afford to get the fabric at the arrowheads soaked as we swam.

The Orcs were still working. I heard occasional splashes as they hurled corpses into the water. The largest group of them I saw was yet at work loading plunder into the ship nearest the smouldering harbour buildings.

That ship we would not bother with. Even I was not foolhardy enough to try dousing a vessel while the Orcs were working on it. But I was going to try for the ship moored next to it.

I swam between two ships, the second and third along the east side. Feeling that I would scarcely be more noticeable if I had walked up to the Orcs with a torch in my hand and announced that we were going to burn the fleet, I pulled myself up against the gunwale and commenced pouring lamp oil into the vessel. I poured it over everything I could reach without climbing into the ship: rowing benches, shipped oars, the hull itself, the mast block, a pile of sails lying folded in the stern.

I emptied one bottle and part of the next before deciding that the ship was sufficiently doused. Then I turned and used up the rest of the oil on the oars and benches of the third ship. I caught a glimpse of one of our Men, his head and one arm visible at the ship's other side as he doused a coil of rope by the mast block. He left the now empty bottle in the ship, gave me a tiny salute and lowered himself out of sight.

Keeping within the darker shadows cast by the ships, I swam back toward the harbour entrance. Here and there I spotted others doing the same.

Were the Orcs entirely blind? I wondered. What use was their greater night vision if they couldn't spot a troop of Men out for a swim in the harbour?

I ducked underwater and cut across to the west side. For another few moments the Orcs' drums were silenced, though I could still feel them, reverberating through the inky water.

Rising cautiously to the surface, I found myself alongside the _Isildur_. A Man whom I recognised as Holgar was manoeuvring himself into the ship, keeping low over the gunwale. Another swam slowly from the direction of the other ships on the west side, towing something behind him.

As the Man came near I saw that it was Captain Eradan. He grinned as he recognised me, and whispered, "Found a boat full of their exploding missiles. Maybe we can use them. Light them and throw them at the ships, I suppose, since we haven't any catapult." He handed the rope by which he'd been towing the boat over to me, continuing, "I'll climb aboard and you can hand them up to me."

"Right," I whispered back. Eradan eased himself into the ship and leaned over the gunwale toward me. Treading water, I started gingerly handing him the round pottery jars one at a time, marvelling at the destruction these harmless-looking things had wrought upon us.

A sudden shout tore the still air. The whirr of an arrow was followed by a splash as the arrow drove into the water.

The quayside erupted into motion. All along the quay I could see Orcs running toward us.

"Men of Gondor!" I yelled. "Fire!"

Men who had been crouched around the mast block of the ship rose up, fiery arrows gleaming in the dark like a row of stars. Almost as one Man, they fired.

We had enough of the Orcs' missiles aboard, I decided, particularly since we'd never used them before and weren't quite sure what we were doing with them. I tipped the Orc boat to one side and sank it and its cargo. Then I dragged myself over the gunwale into the ship.

"Eradan!" I shouted. "Do a count! Do we have everyone?"

Throughout the harbour, flames sprang upward as our shots hit home. I scrambled to where Eradan had piled the missiles, near the firepot at the base of the mast. Too near, I thought; all we needed was for someone to kick over the cooking pot and ignite all of those damned missiles.

Another Man launched himself from the water, landing awkwardly in the _Isildur_'s prow while arrows sang around him.

"We've got everyone now, My Lord!" Eradan shouted.

"Good! Njal, get us out of here!"

Four Men who'd been crouched by the benches thrust their oars through the ports and into the water. In the stern at the twin steering oars, Corporal Njal and the sixth boatman began turning our ship away from the quay.

Men fired on, dipping each new arrow into the firepot before sending it at the fleet. Enemy arrows and spears rained about us.

I called to Eradan, "Let's see if these bloody things work!"

I stuck an arrow into the cook pot, then, taking up a missile in my other hand, held the burning arrow against the missile's wick. I thrust the arrow back into the pot as the wick flamed into life. Thinking that we were probably incredibly stupid to be meddling with these things, I took a better hold on the missile and then hurled it with all of my might toward the neighbouring ships.

It worked. Three ships along, there came a crash and a vast new upsurge of flame.

Eradan laughed and exclaimed, "Good shot, My Lord!" He seized another arrow and one of the missiles. I grabbed another missile.

We disposed thus of six of the ten missiles we'd brought on board, the ships nearest us all but vanishing behind a wall of fire. The _Isildur_ had nearly completed its turn; in a moment the oarsmen could put their full strength to getting us out of the harbour.

Eradan turned to reach for another missile just as I flung the one I held in my hand. In that instant, a spear thrown from the quayside drove into Eradan's back.

I twisted around at the Captain's yell of pain, and managed to grab him just before he would have fallen into the firepot. Eradan collapsed against me, murmuring in a tone of surprise, "Damn, that hurts."

The spear had caught him just under his right shoulder blade. It had not been thrown with force enough to penetrate very deeply. Only about half of the spearpoint was buried in his flesh. The wound was not deep enough to pierce the lung, or so I hoped.

As carefully as possible I pulled the spear from his wound, then I handed the now barely conscious Captain over to the Man who crouched nearest us.

"Do what you can for him," I commanded. I grabbed up another missile, lit it, and hurled it at the quay in the direction the spear had come from.

The beautiful sight met my eyes of a cluster of yelling Orcs erupting into flame.

Not all of the Orcs, I saw in the next moment, had turned their efforts to firing upon us. Some of them – a fairly large number, I thought, from the number of oars I saw in motion – had taken to the ship they'd been loading, and were bringing it about to give chase.

A Man scrambled across the deck toward me as I reached for another missile. I recognised my travelling companion Finn Son of Thorstein. He yelled out over the general din, "Can I have a go at it, My Lord?"

"Be my guest," I yelled back, handing him the missile and seizing up another one. We lit the missiles and flung them almost in unison. Flames leaped along the quay.

"Have the last one," I offered. As Finn grinned his thanks at me and threw our final missile, I shouted, "Three Men, keep firing. The rest, to the oars! Row for our lives!"

We made a stampede for the benches. It was a tribute to the craftsmanship of Gondor's shipwrights that our migration did not cause the ship to capsize. As I grabbed hold of an oar, I glimpsed the Orcs' vessel bearing down on us.

Even heavily loaded as their ship was, they were catching up with us fast. They had mustered more oarsmen than we could. And the Orc muscles behind each oar bore more strength in them than our own.

We drove through the harbour entrance, between the half-ruined towers. Ahead of us lay the open River.

The Anduin's current would add to our speed. It would also add to that of our enemy.

Arrows fired from the pursuing vessel rattled on our deck. One Man cried out as he was struck.

Finn had ended up at the oar behind mine. He called to me now, "If I'm killed again, My Lord, you don't have to bring me back. It was too much bother the last time."

I shouted, "I'll keep that in mind."

I glanced backward, and almost wished I had not.

They were scarcely an oar's length behind us. There was no chance we could outrun them. We were going to have to stop rowing and fight.

One of our Men cried in a tone of awe, "Will you look at that."

I turned again. All along the ship Men did the same, and our rowing slowed as one by one we stopped and stared.

On either side of the Orcs' ship, waves rose from the River. They towered to the height of the mast, then curved in toward each other, over the ship.

Like a gigantic hand closing, the waves smashed in on the Orcs' vessel. Then another wave reared from beneath the ship. It hurled the ship backward through the air. Flying into the harbour, the luckless vessel crashed downward into the ships of our burning fleet.

The water grew suddenly calm, as though the waves had never been.

We stared in stricken silence. Behind us in the dark, the Orcs on the shore drummed on.

I swallowed. When I was sure that I had my voice under command, I ordered, "Keep rowing."

As the Men obeyed, one of them demanded of the company in general, "What in the Valar's name was that?"

I heard Buslai Son of Brynjolf answer somewhere behind me. "The Captain-General's a friend of the River. It must have decided to help him out."

We reached the cove two miles south without further incident, and with no sign of renewed pursuit. It was fortunate that our steersmen knew this stretch of river better than I, for in this darkness I would assuredly have missed the jagged finger of rock that marked the entrance to the cove. As we slowly turned toward the small tributary stream and the beach hidden by overhanging rocks, torchlight suddenly gleamed from the dark. I saw Sergeant Rüdiger the Armourer, standing by the River's edge with the torch in his hand. Beside him stood Svip, light glinting off the water that dripped from his clothes.

Even the largest of Gondor's river-going craft can be easily beached, and launched again, though not quite with equal ease. As two more torches flared to light and our comrades approached from the shadows, we drove the ship onto the sand.

Almost before we'd ceased moving I leapt over the side. "We need a healer here," I ordered, "we've new injuries aboard. Start getting the wounded to the ship. Pull up the planks fore and aft of the oars; there'll be more room for the wounded to lie down in the hold."

Svip, Rüdiger and Lieutenant Malvelgil gathered about me. "Captain Eradan has been injured," I told them grimly. "A spear-shot; I don't know his condition." As shock washed over Malvelgil's face, I attempted to bring his full attention back to duty. "What's the situation here, Lieutenant?"

Malvelgil took command of himself with visible effort. "We reached the cove without difficulty and have encountered none of the enemy, My Lord. But I believe they have further troops to the south. Scouts sent to the clifftop observed numerous small fires along the shore. They appear to be campfires, My Lord, not signs of fighting or looting. But there seems little doubt that they belong to the enemy."

I nodded. "We will attempt to make it appear the ship is derelict. We'll let the current take us. No rowing unless we have to, and no Man should be seen above the gunwale. Perhaps we can avoid being attacked, or at least being attacked as frequently. We must be ready to answer whatever assaults do come, but the fewer we have to fight off, the better."

As wounded on stretchers were borne past us, Auda the Chief Healer clambered out of the ship.

"Have you seen Captain Eradan?" Lieutenant Malvelgil demanded of him.

The Healer frowned at us. "We have his wound cleaned and bound," he said in a troubled tone. "It is not deep, but I fear the spear was poisoned. Not as dangerous a poison as it might have been. But dangerous."

"Thank you," said Malvelgil, blocking all emotion from his voice and face. Even in the half-light, I could see his clenched fists trembling.

The loading of the ship proceeded with reasonable speed, considering that we were squeezing around two hundred Men onto a craft designed to hold a hundred. In the hold we constructed the most comfortable beds we could manage, out of the stretchers and the ship's sails, and settled the more seriously wounded upon them. A few other Men stayed below with their injured comrades. The rest of us would have to find room on the deck, huddled in the minimal shelter of the gunwales and the benches. We would be near to the oars for when we had to use them, and each of us would have bow and arrows close to hand.

Corporal Njal and his fellow steersman took up their places at the steering oars. Theirs would be the most exposed position, with no benches to shield them. They had tied ropes to each steering oar, so they would be better able to manoeuvre them while crouched below the line of the gunwale.

But for the first few moments of our journey, the steersmen were allowed to stand at their oars. Half of the Men who would be on deck took position on the rowing benches, using the oars as poles to shove us off from the bank. The rest of us, myself included, stayed outside and pushed the ship, only clambering aboard when we at last floated free of the shore.

The steersmen brought us to the middle of the current. With considerable grumbling, we shipped oars again and sought the least uncomfortable positions we could discover, sprawled about the deck like so many corpses.

I found myself a piece of deck just behind the upward-sweeping prow. There were several coiled ropes stored in the prow, and I reflected that at least I'd be able to use one of them as a pillow.

The Orcs' drumming faded in the distance. The gentle lapping of water and the moans of the wounded in the hold were the only sounds.

I thought a brief but desperate prayer for their recovery. For all of them, but the names foremost in my mind were those of Captain Eradan and Thorolf Son of Eyjolf.

Svip kept scurrying back and forth, for a few minutes sitting in the prow with me, then going below to visit the wounded. I hoped his continual visits did not distress them, but I supposed they probably did not. He seemed to be keeping quiet; certainly I did not hear him below pestering them with questions. And the Men seemed to have adopted Svip as a kind of mascot. I thought that perhaps his association with me – and with my miraculous return – had turned him into their talisman for victory.

Once in that night, and two times more in the brown haze that passed for daylight, our ship came under attack. Never did the attacks prove more than a passing threat. The Orc bands that attempted to salvage the drifting ship were small enough that a bowshot volley or two was enough to leave them corpses on the bosom of the River.

I kept waiting for us to float into range of some more sizeable force, but the encounter did not come.

The day stretched on.

I lay in the prow, glowering at the lurid sky.

I felt a fresh surge of hatred for that smothering blanket of cloud. It seemed that if only the cloud were torn away, we would know that at least we still had something for which to fight. We would fight not just from desperation and stubbornness, but from hope. But while this livid murk hung about us, there seemed no way of believing that we would ever win.

Which was precisely how the Dark Lord wanted it, I reminded myself. Which meant that we had to hang onto our hope regardless, just to spite him.

I glanced down at the sound of someone scrambling across the deck toward me. Svip picked his way over a coil of rope, then sat cross-legged in the prow, hunching low so as to not protrude over the gunwale.

For a moment he studied me with a troubled scowl, then his gaze flinched away.

"What is it?" I asked him. I had been wanting to ask him that all night, but had waited for something that would seem like the right moment. But there was no right moment. The last time he had left, I'd vowed that I would ask him the next chance I had.

He looked back at me. "Boromir – " he began, then suddenly the words started tumbling forth. "Boromir, the ones that – that die, I won't be able to bring them back. I don't have any more silverweed with me. I don't think any grows this far south. I was afraid of that, back at the fort, when I went to sleep in the harbour. I checked at the cove, to make sure. The waterplants are different down here. The soil at the bottom's siltier, I think. I think maybe the water's too warm for the silverweed to grow properly. I'm sorry, I should have brought more with me – I could go back and get more, but by the time I got back, some of them are bound to have died. And the ones back at the fortress, I'm not sure I could get to them, with the Orcs – and if you wait too long after they die, I'm not sure that it works – "

"Svip, please. Stop." I stared miserably at the deck, then I forced myself to face him.

"I am sorry, Svip. I should have said this to you sooner. I had no right to pressure you into bringing Finn and Buslai back. I took advantage of our friendship to make you do what you knew you should not. I'll not do it again."

He shook his head in protest. "But I didn't want them to die, either," he said. "I don't want any of them to die. And this is different, these ones won't have drowned. I could bring them back, if I had the silverweed. It's my fault, I didn't bring enough along – "

"It's not your fault," I insisted fiercely, gripping his shoulder. "People die, Svip. We can't save them all. People die."

"But I don't want them to," he whispered.

"I know," I whispered back. "Neither do I."

Night settled on us again, another ink-black night with no trace of stars.

When the dark drew in, Svip made his way to the stern. The last I saw before night closed in entirely was Svip hunched atop the barrel where one of the steersmen would usually sit, looking in silhouette like some gigantic house cat. He was whispering advice and directions to Njal crouched by his steering oar, as he sought to keep our course down the River's middle.

If Svip could see in this darkness, I thought, it was an easy bet that our enemies could as well.

Despite my constant grim expectations, the hours passed with no shouts of discovery and no arrows whizzing past our heads. And with no blood-chilling cries from flying shadows above us.

Sauron's enterprise clearly had his dreaded captains busy somewhere else. I grimaced as I thought of it, remembering my dream of Faramir riding for the City's walls, while the winged demons swooped and circled above him.

As the current bore us on, I thought that the utter darkness brought at least one comfort. If our foe had passed in force through the lands that were drifting past us, the land and its farmsteads and villages would be in flames. Yet now no fire pierced the dark, not even glints of campfires such as we'd seen further upriver. No scent of smoke reached us on the sullen air.

Perhaps this time the blackness should give us hope, that when light came again at last there would be something left for our people to return to.

I lay there staring at black nothing.

At some point I fell asleep, to the low moans and murmurs of our wounded, the whispers of their comrades trying to quiet them, and the rush of the water on our hull.

That sleep brought no dreams that I remember. But when I awoke, I knew our situation had changed.

I felt someone's hand on my shoulder, and heard Svip's voice hissing "Boromir." As I blinked my way awake, I thought I could see what I had been looking for earlier, the wavering red light of fire. A hint of smoke drifted to my nostrils, and I thought that somewhere in the distance I heard shouts, and the clang of steel on steel.

I propped myself on my elbows, whispering, "Does anyone know where we are?"

The fire, I saw now, was some ways ahead. Behind and around us all was still black, but ahead, the sky glowed red.

"I think it must be Osgiliath, My Lord," came the voice of Captain Cirion, as he crept across the deck toward me. "I've been trying to keep track of our position. The sound of the current changed about five minutes back. If that was the Eärnur Shallows that I heard, then it should be Osgiliath ahead."

"Yes," I murmured. I closed my eyes for an instant, clenching my fists as I fought a wave of outraged fury.

The thought came to me of all the times that I had vowed, to our Men and my father and myself, that Osgiliath would never fall while I lived.

My father had told me not make vows like that. I should have listened to him.

I opened my eyes and stared at the distant red glare. Neither outrage, fury nor regret would gain us anything.

I hissed, "Pass the word to the steersmen to pull us in to the shore. We'll send ahead a scouting party."

The river grasses rustled on our hull as we pulled alongside the bank. All along our craft I heard hushed sounds of movement as Men awoke, and their comrades gave them whispered reports on our whereabouts. The tense alertness spreading among us seemed even to have touched our wounded. It seemed that their murmurs of pain became quieter, as though even through delirium they strove to fight in Gondor's service.

"My Men and I will go, My Lord," Cirion whispered. "I'll take Finn and Buslai; I believe both have proved they are fully recovered."

"Very well," I began, but Svip interjected.

"You don't need to send scouts," he whispered. "I'll go. It'll be safer. I can swim in; I'm smaller. No one ought to notice me."

I could see both his face and Cirion's very dimly in the vague light. Perhaps more from imagining than sight I thought I could tell what expressions were on their faces: surprised irritation on Cirion's, and eager pleading on Svip's.

"My Lord," Cirion hissed, "we must not ask Svip to risk himself – "

"You're not asking," Svip hissed back. "I'm volunteering."

I hesitated, yet again cursing myself for letting Svip get caught up in this. He ought to be at home right now, with nothing to concern him beyond finding odd new items for his collection.

"My Lord," the Ranger began, but again Svip interrupted.

"Where's the sense in sending big, hulking men who'll be spotted in a instant, when I can go there and back and they'll never even know I was there?"

"Damn it, will you listen – "

"Enough," I decreed. "Svip will go."

I heard Cirion's exasperated sigh, and I was almost certain that I saw the smile on Svip's face.

The little water creature swiftly went about taking off the daggers and shortswords that he had about his person, then he slipped into the water. As he paused with his hand on the gunwale, gazing up at the ship, I reached out and closed my hand over his.

"Be cautious," I ordered him. "Do you hear me? If you are slain in this, I will not forgive myself."

"Right," Svip said. This time I knew that I saw him grin.

With a barely audible splash, he was gone.

We waited, in near-silence broken by whispered pain and the distant clash of steel.

"Is this to happen every time, My Lord?" Cirion demanded, icy disapproval in his tone. "Is every plan to be discarded because the water creature has a different suggestion?"

My fists clenched. I was glad of the dark, that might conceal the anger I should have been able to keep from my face. I said, "His suggestions will be acted upon when they are right."

"And how long do we wait for him?"

"Until he comes back," I snapped.

The Ranger Captain made no answer. I heard the rustle of movement as he scrambled further back into the ship.

I leaned against the curve of the prow, watching the glow of the distant fires.

The air hung like lead. I wished I had swum forward with Svip to investigate. It seemed that only in the water was there any escape, any relief from the loathsome weight of the air that never moved, and the days that brought no light.

Cirion was right. If I kept allowing Svip to risk himself like this, the moment might come when I must face the knowledge that he was not coming back.

That moment might come sooner than I would admit.

But I was not going to think of it. Not yet.

I thought instead of the last time I had seen Osgiliath. Of a summer's morning at the Osgiliath bridge.

I could feel the warmth of the rising sun on my face. I felt the sticky heaviness of our foemen's blood soaking through my clothes. I felt the sweat trickling under my helmet, stinging the cuts where a glancing sword blow had jammed the helmet into my head.

And I felt the shocking sudden cold of the water, as our comrades tore down the bridge's final pilings and we leapt into the River, leaving behind us our raging, screaming opponents and the corpses of all our company.

That day I made a promise to the soldiers I left guarding the western shore. I vowed to them that even now, Osgiliath would not fall. I vowed that together they and I would hold the west shore. We would hold back the enemy lurking in East Osgiliath's ruins, and someday all of Osgiliath would be rebuilt. Its gleaming towers would stand once more, on both shores, as tribute to Gondor's glory and to the courage of her sons.

Then I rode away. I rode to Minas Tirith, and the dream that spoke of Imladris, and Gondor's doom.

I rode away to my death.

My words taunted me as I heard them again in my mind.

If Osgiliath would not fall while I lived, as I had boasted, what did it mean now that I had died and returned?

Had fate brought me back only in time to witness Osgiliath's fall?

A whispered cry startled me from my thoughts.

"Here he is!"

Svip leapt dripping into the prow. All along our ship, Men inched closer to hear his report.

"Orcs," he said breathlessly. "An army of them. They've got bridges of rafts tied together, all across the River. They're running across. The fire's on the west shore. There are Men there, too. There's a line of them on the west shore, fighting the Orcs as they get across. And I think there are more, further west. I heard shouting, and their trumpets."

In the pause that followed his words, I looked at the faces of our Men, little more than blurs in the darkness.

In spite of Svip's grim report, something like hope leapt in my soul.

We could yet do something to aid our comrades. Even if Osgiliath could not be held, we were yet in time.

I said, "I believe it is time that we joined in. What say you?"

A chorus of agreement answered me.

"If our people are retreating, then we will guard their retreat. Is Corporal Njal within hearing?"

Men along the ship moved aside for Njal to creep closer. "Here I am, My Lord," the steersman whispered.

"Keep us close in to this shore. We will get up the highest speed we can manage with a Man at each oar, and strike the first bridge we reach with as much force as we can." I looked around again at the assembled company. "We must get our wounded to the main body of the retreat without putting them at unnecessary risk. I want one able-bodied Man assisting each of the wounded, and another twenty to guard the flanks. We can't spare enough Men to carry the wounded on stretchers. Any who can't walk, you will have to carry; do the best you can. Get the wounded ready to move. As soon as we attack, do not wait for anything. Make for the west and the sound of the trumpets.

"The rest of us will each take an oar. Row for all you are worth, and be ready for combat the instant we strike the bridge." I had to grin at my next thought. "Be as blood-curdling as possible. We want them to think there's a few thousand of us, at the least. And make as much noise as possible – noise that will identify us as Men of Gondor. It's as dark as a privy pit out here; we don't want our own Men slaying us by mistake."

I allowed a moment for the upsurge of laughs and joking whispers. "That is all," I said, the whispers ceasing as I spoke. "Any questions?"

No one spoke, then one Man whispered, "No, sir. Good luck to you, My Lord."

"And good luck to each of you," I replied. "May we each strike a blow for Gondor. Every Man, to your stations."

We scattered, some climbing down to the hold, others finding seats at the oars. I sat at the frontmost starboard oar. As quiet once more settled over the _Isildur_, I looked back along the deck. As far as I could see, there was a Man on each bench. At the stern, the steersmen stood to their oars. One of them raised his hand to me in salute.

"Forward," I ordered, loud enough for my voice to be heard throughout the ship. One hundred oars plunged into the water as one, and the _Isildur_ leapt forward.

The ship was still building up speed when Svip came scampering to the prow and hopped onto the bench beside me.

I had been a bit surprised, though relieved, when he had gone without comment to join the Men in the hold. I should have known that the notion of Svip avoiding danger willingly was too good to be believed.

"Svip," I said, as the water creature ducked out of the way of my oar, "you are going with the wounded."

"No, I'm not," he said. He sounded perfectly cheerful, and I swore under my breath.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not," he repeated. "You said I could come along the next time."

_Valar give me patience_! I prayed. "You going ahead to scout on your own _was_ the next time," I argued. "I didn't say anything about the time after next."

"Scouting ahead doesn't count," said Svip. "You know perfectly well the deal referred to the next time you go into battle."

"Svip," I growled, "one of these days I am going to wring your scrawny little neck."

"No, you're not."

I clamped my jaw shut to stop myself from saying, "Yes, I am," and rowed.

We could soon see more than the fires' light ahead of us. I thought perhaps I could make out some solid mass above the waterline, that must be the pontoon bridges of which Svip had spoken. I saw a rush of movement as figures shrouded by the darkness raced across the River. And I saw, silhouetted in the glow of fire, another line of figures along the western shore, and the glint of light upon sword blades.

The din of battle swelled to greet us. Trumpet calls of Gondor blended with Orc conch shells, Men's shouts vied with Orcish howls, the crackle of fire fought to drown out the clash of steel.

Two very distinct emotions arose within me: a fierce joy and an incredible exasperation that damned bloody Svip was risking his life _again_.

"All right, Svip," I snarled. "_Do not get yourself killed_."

"All right," he said.

The _Isildur_ drove forward like an arrow. The dark bulk of the bridges and the creatures running across them loomed before us.

We hit.

The _Isildur_'s prow smashed into their raft bridge, slicing one of the rafts clean in two. Splintering wood flew in all directions, and for an instant I ducked into the shelter of the prow. Then I leapt from the prow to the remains of the bridge. I bellowed "Gondor!" at the top of my lungs, swinging my sword to meet that of an Orc who'd turned back from the shore to face this new enemy.

I beat his blade aside and lopped off his head before he could recover. As another Orc rushed me with a roar of fury, a grey horse jumped from the _Isildur_'s prow, his jump taking him over the first bridge. Svip turned, lunged, and closed his teeth on my Orc's shoulder just as our blades met. He dragged the Orc bodily from the bridge, shook him like a dog with a rat, and then flung him away, the limp body hurtling into a group of running Orcs on the next bridge.

"Thank you!" I yelled. "Why don't you find some Orcs of your own to kill? There's enough for both of us!"

Svip obligingly charged the second bridge. He reared, his hooves knocking at least another two Orcs into the water, then grabbed a third in his teeth as he splashed down on all fours again. I shook my head, then followed him, to mop up any Orcs who might get past the battle-mad horse.

The cry of "Gondor!" rang about us. Along the riverbank, Men surged forward to gain a foothold on the bridges, as our reinforcements joined their ranks.

Orcs were now leaping from the bridge in front of me and rushing inland through the shallow water, to avoid Svip's frenzied attack. I vaulted over the bridge and ran through the water to meet them, yelling "Gondor!" as my sword bit through Orc flesh.

In the corner of my vision I saw Men running forward on the third bridge. As I hacked at the Orcs around me, one of our soldiers darted from the shore into the water, to take a stand at my side.

For some moments the fighting was too brisk to allow for any other focus. Then as the last two of our immediate opponents fell, my comrade got a glimpse of my face.

"My Lord Boromir!" he gasped out, nearly dropping his sword.

I said, "Yes." And that was all the conversation I managed, for in the next instant more Orcs were plunging through the water toward us.

The soldier fought his next two opponents in silence, but as he swung his sword at the third he shouted a new battle cry: "Boromir!"

I do not know how long we fought. I think it can probably have been no more than ten minutes, from the time the _Isildur_ crashed into the bridge. On all of the bridges that I could see, the Men of Gondor had pushed forward, taking the fight to the Orcs instead of letting them reach the shore. Some Orcs were now bypassing the bridges entirely, rowing across in cockleboats while we hacked at their fellows on each bridge. The Orcs in the boats had no simple task ahead of them, for our Men farther back on the bridges and the shore rained arrows upon them in unrelenting numbers.

At some point the soldier and I had clambered onto the second bridge, racing along it until we met a band of Orcs sprinting at full tilt in the opposite direction. Svip swam forward at our left, springing up to grab an Orc off the bridge whenever he decided there were too many for us, and once sinking a boatload of unfortunate Orcs who strayed too close to his hooves.

Three more of our Men had taken a stand on the bridge a few feet behind us, and were firing at any Orc boat that approached. I don't know if they had recognised me, if they'd heard of my return from the Men of Cair Andros, or if they had simply taken up my comrade's battle cry. But they and the soldier beside me were all shouting "Boromir!" with every blow he struck and every arrow they fired.

In the blackness of the far shore there sounded a cry; a cold, mocking screech of hatred.

I could not at first see what had uttered that cry. Then a shape blacker than the sky hurtled downward from one of the shattered towers of East Osgiliath. It galloped at us like some mad horseman of the sky, its cry shrieking out again and twisting through my mind.

The black horseman dove at our bridge. Orcs and Men alike threw ourselves down on the raft bridge, to avoid the steed's flying feet as the dark one swooped over us.

I caught a moment's glimpse of an ice-pale crown glowing beneath the rider's black hood, and a sword likewise gleaming with icy fire as it sliced the air above my head.

The horseman rode on, diving at the combatants on the next bridge with his cry of madness and terror. As I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my fellow warrior by the shoulder and dragging him up with me, I saw the other three Men on our bridge turn to run for the shore.

"Hold your ground!" I bellowed, at them and at our Men in general. "For Gondor! Hold your ground!"

The three soldiers slowed and halted, reluctantly turning to face the eastern shore once again. One of them gave a wordless shout, and fired his next arrow up toward the black horror circling the third bridge.

Our Orcs had been cowering back. Now they rushed us again, howling in desperate rage as they charged.

Svip leapt from the water, seizing an Orc off the bridge with such force that hideous multiple cracks sounded from the creature's backbone. I cut down another Orc and my fellow soldier felled a third, I shouting "Gondor!" and my comrade crying again "Boromir!"

From the shore far behind us, our trumpets rang in the command to retreat.

I gritted my teeth, wishing for an instant that we could press forward and take the enemy on their own ground, flying black horseman or no. But I did not command here this time. I did not know our numbers or the numbers of our foe, or what our troops' condition might be. It was not for me to decide.

But I was damned if I'd let these Orcs come strolling over their bridges the instant we turned our backs.

Ten more Orcs on our bridge were hanging back for the moment, cowering together in awe of the magical horse at our side. I did not think their fear would last long, but while it did, they made an excellent target.

I unslung my bow from my back and nocked an arrow. I said to my comrade, "We do not want these fellows running up our backs as we retreat."

He stood as if frozen for a second longer, perhaps trying to make sense of the mad sights he was witnessing. Then he shook his head and muttered "Aye," and reached for his bow.

We dropped four in swift succession. This put the remaining six on the offensive, and they rushed forward again. The soldier and I backed away along the bridge, shouldering our bows again and drawing our swords.

"Svip!" I yelled. "Get back here. Get back to the shore. We're retreating."

Svip lunged, seizing another Orc in his teeth. He hurled his victim down and trampled him in the water as he fought to swim for the bridge, splashes blending with screams.

"My Lord!" came a shout behind us. "Get down!"

The soldier and I immediately dropped into a crouch, and the arrows of our three companions sang over our heads. Three more Orcs fell.

It was the work of a moment to finish the other two. The soldier and I sprang up and charged them. They had died almost before they could make any move of defence.

The voice of some officer sounded from the shore, "Fall back! Fall back!"

I grinned wearily at my comrades. "I suppose that means us," I said. I looked over at the horse at my side. "Come on, Svip. I mean it."

As we hastened back across the bridge, I glanced upward, listening for the hellish shriek of the horseman. I did not hear it, or see any trace of him.

Where had he got to? I wondered. Had he shown himself only to urge our retreat, and flown off to roost again somewhere now that he had his desire?

We reached the riverbank. All along the shore, Men were hurling at the bridges lit torches and chunks of burning wreckage, which I supposed they must have pulled from our camp that the enemy had set ablaze.

On the shoreline between the bridges, Men piled a blockade of corpses, our own comrades' and those of our foes. This, too, they set afire.

"The ship, as well," I said, to an officer who seemed to be directing this operation. "It might still be sound enough for the enemy to make use of it. Check that all Men are clear of it, then set it alight."

The officer stared, with an expression that clearly showed he had recognised me. Then he said, "Aye, My Lord," leading a team to where the _Isildur_'s stately prow gleamed in the firelight.

The foe was hanging back now, all along our line. In the murky distance I could see the shapes of their boats, but they made no move upon us. I supposed they were nursing their wounds – and waiting to occupy West Osgiliath until we had withdrawn, and could inflict no more losses upon them.

An officer on horseback galloped up to us, ordering, "Fall in! Form your columns!"

We obeyed. Svip stuck close by my side as the columns formed up. He did not speak, I supposed to avoid frightening the troops who did not yet know his nature.

Two Men with wounded legs, I ordered onto Svip's back. As I was helping to boost the second Man onto the horse, Svip suddenly snorted in fear. An instant later, the cry of the dark rider screeched out from the inky sky.

The cry was answered by an echoing shriek, in a slightly different tone. Then another, keening out of the blackness further to the south.

The screams bounced off the dead city's ruins all around us, as though the riders had us surrounded.

Our column wavered, as a few Men started to run.

"Stand fast!" I yelled. "They fear us, or they would come down here and face us. Hold fast!"

Another horseman was galloping along the shore toward us. His steed reared as the loathsome cries sounded again, but in only an instant he had the beast back under control. He drew in rein beside our ranks, stroking a calming hand along the horse's mane. The horseman urged us, "Hold your line! Fear nothing from them. Let them descend and fight us, if they have the courage. Do the Men of Gondor fear foes who scream taunts from a safe distance?"

I froze at the first sound of the horseman's voice. All words seemed trapped in my throat.

The Men about me began to shift nervously away. The gaze of all of them seemed riveted upon me, and a tide of whispering raced through their ranks.

As the troops stared at me, I stared at the horseman. I felt as though I were the one who was seeing a ghost.

Then the spell was broken. I shouted, "Faramir!"


	11. Chapter Eleven: Conversations on the Cau...

_Chapter Eleven: Conversations on the Causeway _

My brother turned swiftly at the sound of my voice. His eyes raked the crowd.

At first he did not see me. I knew a moment's fear that I was not there at all.

Perhaps I was a ghost, after all. I'd convinced myself that I'd come home, because I wanted so badly to be alive.

Then his gaze lit upon me, and held.

The other mounted officer rode to Faramir's side. I recognized him now in context as the Ranger Lieutenant Anborn, of Faramir's Ithilien regiment. The Ranger put a hand on Faramir's arm, beginning tentatively, "Captain, are you all right –"

Without looking at him, Faramir handed his reins over to Anborn. Then he slowly dismounted, as though making his way through a dream.

He took a step toward me, then stopped, staring in dismay and wonder.

I pushed through the troops, only vaguely aware of the soldiers' staring faces as they jumped out of my way.

"Boromir –" my brother whispered.

I reached out and pulled him to me. I hugged him as though the embrace could wipe out all the times I had feared never to see him again.

As I stepped back, Faramir clutched my arms, searching my face with haunted eyes.

"You're alive," he breathed.

"So are you." I smiled as I spoke the familiar words.

"But you're not," Faramir insisted. His grasp tightened on my arms. He whispered desperately, "You were dead, Boromir. I saw you."

"I know," I said. "I'm sorry."

Again the calls of the dark riders wailed through the heavy air. Our troops stirred uneasily about us, but Faramir did not even look to the sky. His gaze did not waver, as he stared at me as though he could summon the truth out of my apparition just by gazing long enough.

"My Lords," urged Lieutenant Anborn. "We must go."

I said, "I'll explain it all as soon as we can sit down and talk." I smiled again, trying to banish Faramir's desperate, searching gaze. "I promise you that I'm alive now."

They were not, I am sure, the most reassuring words I could have spoken. Likely it would have been more comforting if I'd told him I'd never been dead. That my death was rumour only; that it had never held any truth.

But I have not made a habit of lying to my brother. I did not intend to start.

From somewhere along the shore, at a point invisible in the darkness, an officer's voice commanded, "troop, move out!"

I gripped Faramir's shoulder. "Faramir," I said, "we should go."

He blinked as though just awaking, and nodded. "Have you a horse?" he asked me.

I turned to look at Svip, with the two wounded Men mounted on his back. Svip and his bemused and wide-eyed passengers were watching us along with the rest of the troop.

"Well, yes," I said, "but he's busy at the moment."

Faramir frowned in confusion, but before he could inquire further, Anborn offered quickly, "Take mine, My Lord." The Ranger dismounted and held out his reins to me.

"Thank you," I said. "There's something I must do first."

We were at the end of the column. Troops further south along the shore had already started marching into the ruins, to reach the main Osgiliath Road. We would move out as well, as soon as those ahead of us had done so. I turned and hurried over to Svip.

Discussing matters with my horse would doubtless convince our troops – and my brother – that I was not only back from the dead but also entirely mad. But I was not going to bother with a general announcement that my companion was a shape-shifter. The Men from Cair Andros would talk of it with their comrades; the story of Svip's nature would spread soon enough.

"Svip," I said, almost not finding it odd anymore to be speaking into the long, solemn face of a horse, "that's my brother Lord Faramir. I'm going to borrow that other Man's horse and ride along with him for a while, so I can talk with him. When we get to our lines I want to introduce him to you. I'll look for you when we get there." I turned to the Man standing nearest to Svip, whom I was glad to recognise as my comrade from our fight on the Orcs' raft bridge. He had seen Svip perform some very un-horselike actions in battle, so he should have no trouble accepting that Svip was more than just a horse. I said to him, "Will you aid Svip in seeing to it that his passengers are safely delivered to the healers?"

"Aye, My Lord," said the soldier, saluting and doing an admirable job of acting as though he got this sort of order every day.

"Thank you." I smiled at Svip, who nodded his head to me, then I strode back to where Faramir and Anborn were waiting. Faramir had remounted while I conferred with Svip. Anborn stood by his horse's side, not quite succeeding in keeping his face expressionless. From the way he was eyeing me, it was an easy bet that he feared I was some snare of the Dark Lord, sent to lure Faramir to destruction.

Faramir and I rode to the back of the column, keeping a lookout for stragglers as the Men headed out. Ahead of us, our Men marched four abreast, one carrying a torch in every tenth row. In the uncertain light I could just make out the larger shape of Svip, plodding along near the third torchbearer ahead of us.

At first we did not speak. I looked about us as we rode through the ruins, noting as well as I could the changes that had come to Osgiliath since the last time I had been here.

For stretches along the road the buildings were shattered worse than they had been, their walls torn into jagged stone fingers striking upward like monuments in the stone circles of the ancients. Several times we had to detour around piles of building stones that had tumbled into the road, that I knew would not have remained there if our Men had had any time to clear them away. To our left, the flames we'd observed from upriver were sinking lower as their fuel was consumed. That portion of the old city, I knew, was where our forces usually camped, the tents set up in the courtyard and empty halls of the great Dome of Stars.

As I squinted toward the flames, trying to discern the shell of the Dome through the darkness, I noticed Faramir studying me. He smiled faintly as our gazes met, the first smile I had seen from him since my miraculous appearance.

Faramir admitted ruefully, "I keep thinking I'll look over at you and find that you've disappeared."

"Not me," I joked. "I'm like the bad penny."

Silence sank on us again, save only the hollow clopping of our steeds' hooves on the cobblestones. I scowled to myself, thinking that we were wasting time we might not have again for the myriad things we had to discuss. Although it was hardly a surprise that this should not be the easiest conversation to launch into, since the main topics of discussion would be "Do you think our country's about to fall to the Dark Lord?" and "How did you happen to come back from the dead?"

Faramir found a way to start us speaking, by asking me something else. "What manner of being is your horse?" he inquired, his eyes seeking out Svip in the torchlit procession ahead of us.

With a rush of affection for him, I thought, _My brother the scholar_. Only Faramir, in the midst of this madness, would pick up on the fact that Svip was more than he seemed and would immediately hunger to know more. I thought, _Perhaps I should have arranged for Faramir and Svip to talk along this ride. They could be discussing the nature and history of flotsam-collecting water creatures, and I wouldn't have to face all the things I don't want to talk about_.

"I don't know what his people call themselves," I said. "I've not met any of them but him. His name is Svip. He's a shape-shifter; he lives below the Falls of Rauros."

My brother turned sharply at that, with another troubled frown. Clear enough, he knew that Rauros was where I had met my death. After a moment, his gaze shied away from me again.

I sighed. Sooner or later I would have to tell him of my death and resurrection, so why not get on with it? I told myself, _It's not as though you can make this like any other homecoming as long as you don't speak of it_.

But there were, my mind argued, several more pressing topics of conversation.

"What's our situation here?" I asked. "I only came in at the tail end of the battle, with the Men of Cair Andros. I don't know what was happening before we arrived. What are we facing?"

"You were at Cair Andros?" Faramir questioned. "I got the report that the garrison had reached us, but I didn't know you were with them." He hesitated, as if he meant to ask me something else, then he sighed and went back to my question. His expression hardened as he stared grimly ahead.

"There are ten thousand of them in East Osgiliath," he said. "Or, that was our conservative estimate, before it got too dark to see their movements. I arrived here with the reinforcements at mid-morning yesterday, and it was two hours later that they started massing across the River. The Orcs have spearheaded the attacks thus far, but their allies are joining them. The Haradrim made their camp across the River from the Dome of Stars. Five thousand of Harad's troops at a guess, we saw come in to camp, but they were arriving yet when it got too dark to see them." Faramir smiled grimly. "Their king had his tent set up directly opposite our command tent. They moved the Serpent Flag inside the tent, though, after a few of our Men started using it for target practice."

Behind us, a dull crash sounded in the ruins. Our horses shied and snorted in alarm. We reined in and turned to stare into the dark.

Several more crashes came, but only once did I see a large, round dark shape slam into a wall illumined in the glimmer of our burning camp. Never did the projectiles, hurled I assumed from catapults across the River, come close enough to cause our column any unease.

"Just urging us on our way," Faramir observed with a shrug, as we proceeded on. "Their aim is worsening. Either that or their fabled night vision doesn't help them see in this filth any better than we can."

He shook his head. "They were hurling missiles at us half the night; boulders as well as burning shot that caught our tents alight. We had few casualties from the bombardment, but it got the job done – it kept us occupied trying to put out the fires and answering their shots, while they readied their bridges and started across the River." Faramir fell silent, with a bitter frown.

"They did the same at Cair Andros," I said, hoping to stop him from blaming himself for our present position. "Kept us busy with their bombardment and assaults on the wall, while their fleet made for the harbour mouth. Go on; you were telling me about our Men firing on Harad's banner."

The mention of that incident did get another smile out of him, but it swiftly faded. "They made no move to attack while the day lasted; I imagine they wanted to give ample time for our blood to congeal at their numbers. We even received the honour of an envoy from their Captain. A swarthy-visaged Man in Orc armour was rowed across the River under a flag of parley, just ere dark closed in entirely. He presented me with a missive stating that their numbers are so vast they will crush us as though the Tower of Guard were an anthill; they have fifty thousands coming from Harad, twenty thousands from Rhûn and Khand, two hundred thousands from Barad-dûr and Minas Morgul; the Corsairs of Umbar are rallying to their banner with a hundred ships; they will dash out the brains of our infants on the walls of Minas Tirith and dishonour our women while we are forced to watch – the threats went on for a page or so, but that was the gist of them. The letter offered that if we chose to throw ourselves on their mercy, lay down our arms and swear fealty to the Lord of Barad-dûr, they might be generously moved to spare us and we could look forward to life in slavery, tilling their master's fields in Mordor." Scorn vibrated in my brother's voice as he recounted the Enemy's offer.

I asked him, "What was our answer?"

"I told him that I regretted we could not avail ourselves of their generosity, and as soon as the envoy reached the far shore we sent a few catapult volleys after him." Faramir shook his head, with a weary sigh. "I don't doubt that the numbers are inflated out of all recognition, but it scarcely makes any difference. With our numbers, they could have a miniscule fraction of those forces and yet have ample to crush us."

Misgivings crept through me at the tone of Faramir's words. "Why?" I asked. "What _are_ our numbers?"

"They are not good." He gazed ahead at the shadowy figures of our army, and went on quietly, "I brought nigh a thousand with me yesterday, added to the five hundreds or thereabouts that were here already –"

"A thousand!" I interrupted. "In the Valar's names, what was the point of that? Is Father mad, not to have sent more? Five thousands would not be enough; one thousand's a waste of everybody's time!"

"Boromir," my brother cut in, in a calm if exasperated tone, "we do not have the Men. We have perhaps another thousand manning the Causeway Forts and Rammas Echor, and at the City we have four thousands at the most, including all the troops from the Southern Fiefs."

I stared at him in disbelief. For a change, I thought, things were turning out worse than my pessimistic imaginings. "How can that be?" I murmured. "Has Father not summoned our allies?"

"He has. Uncle Imrahil brought twelve hundreds with him, and another sixteen hundreds have come from the other fiefs combined." He sighed again. "They fear the Umbar Corsairs, whether or not they have the hundred ships with which the envoy threatened us. They've held back their fighting Men to defend their coasts, and Minas Tirith must go begging."

"Hell and damnation," I whispered. "And Rohan? Have we news of them?"

"Father sent the Red Arrow, but we'd had no word nor seen any sign of them, when I left the City yesterday. From what Mithrandir says, Théoden does plan to ride to our aid, but they just fought a mighty battle themselves; it may take days to muster their forces –"

"_What did you just say_?" I demanded, wondering if I had lost my hearing or my mind. "From what _Mithrandir_ says?"

Faramir looked surprised, then he gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry," he said. "I'd heard he was reported dead; I forgot you wouldn't have heard otherwise. He arrived at the City from Rohan, three days since."

"Bloody hell," I protested, "I saw him fall into a fiery pit in Moria!" I shook my head, then I had to laugh at the marvellous absurdity of it. "I will be damned. I suppose I am the last Man who should complain about people returning from the dead."

Faramir's smile grew decidedly uncomfortable. With an effort, he schooled his face and voice to calmness. "You'll have to speak with him; he'll have news of the other companions with whom you were travelling. I believe he left most of them in Rohan; they may arrive with Théoden, if he makes it through to us. And there's one that Mithrandir brought to the City with him, the halfling Pippin …"

This time I managed to restrain myself from bursting out shouting, but it was a near thing. For a moment the dim, torchlit road and our marching army blurred before my eyes.

"Pippin," I breathed, hardly daring to believe it. "You're sure of that? You've seen him?"

"And spoken with him," Faramir confirmed. "He has sworn fealty to our father, and wears the livery of the Tower. He's serving as Father's esquire, since Hákon requested a transfer to the Rammas."

I chuckled at the remarkable image, shaking my head again in wonder and joy. "That I have got to see," I murmured. "Pippin as Father's esquire? Either the one has grown in maturity and sense, or the other has grown in patience. But have you heard aught of the halfling Merry? Did he not come to Minas Tirith also?"

"No; Mithrandir said he'd remained in Rohan with the others." Some troubling thought struck my brother then. He rode on in silence, frowning and not meeting my gaze.

His darkening expression sent my thoughts down darker roads as well. I forced myself to voice a question, though I was not sure I wanted to hear the answer. "How is Father doing?"

"How do you expect?" Faramir snapped, with a sudden flash of anger that told more than any words. Almost immediately his anger was succeeded by something else. A bleak, wintry look settled onto his face. "He has not taken the news of your death well."

I closed my eyes for an instant, cursing under my breath. "I sent him a letter from Cair Andros, before the siege closed in," I said, looking at Faramir again. "Has he not received it?"

"He had not when I left yesterday."

"Damn it all to hell." I thought of the messenger Aleksei, and wondered if his fabled luck had finally run out. I asked, although my dread grew the farther our conversation went along this path, "How did word of my death come?"

Faramir gazed at me long and seriously, as though wondering again if I were about to disappear. "Father and I heard the Horn," he said. "Two weeks ago or more now, blowing again and again from out of the north, though no news had come of you passing our borders. Three nights later, I saw – a vision of which I will not speak here." He shook his head as though banishing the vision from his sight, and went on in hushed, hurried tones. "When I told Father of my vision, he took it as proof of your death. I believed it such, as well. Then other tokens came. From what I am told, while I and my Men were in Ithilien, the Horn of Gondor came home to Minas Tirith. It came in two pieces, one found caught in the reeds south of Cair Andros, and one that made its way to the City itself, and was discovered by a boatman at the Harlond. The pieces were taken at once to our father. I am told he has not ceased carrying them since they were brought to him. I know I have not seen him without them, since I returned from Ithilien."

I shivered at his words. "Father has the Horn?" I whispered. "That is … the strangest thing I have ever heard." It occurred to me that in the midst of _this_ particular conversation, the return of the Horn was perhaps not so strange after all. "One of the strangest things," I amended. "Valar. I can't believe it. The Horn was broken in the fight when – when I was slain, but I only lost it a few days ago, in the flood at Lilla Howe." I noticed Faramir's curious frown, and added, "I'll tell you about it later."

I wondered, as I thought of it, if it were the Horn's own bond to Minas Tirith and our family that had brought it safely home. Or perhaps the River had delivered it back to us, as a token of good will.

Faramir rode on, lost in thought. Finally he shook himself free of his thoughts again. "The only details of your death that we've heard came from Pippin the halfling. He spoke of your battle, and of seeing you pierced by many arrows. Father keeps Pippin by him now as he does the Horn, as the last links that he has to you."

As I had done so many times before, I thought, _I should never have left_. Guilt and sorrow shook me to the core. I whispered, "I didn't think it would hit Father that hard."

Faramir said in a flat, quiet tone, "It has hit him that hard, Boromir."

We were passing through the Western Gate of Osgiliath, onto the Causeway Road. In the blackness around us I could barely see the outline of the gate, and the half-ruined tower above. I pictured the gate in my mind as we rode beneath it, conjuring the carven image of the Dome of Stars that yet welcomes travellers to Osgiliath, centuries after the dome itself crashed to earth.

I wondered how many hours would pass before our foes marched beneath the gate, on the road to Minas Tirith.

_I should say something_, I thought. But what was there to say? "I'm sorry" was not good enough for the pain I had brought our father. Or for what Faramir must have endured, as he tried to see our father through it.

In time-honoured fashion, I strove to change the subject.

"I interrupted you earlier," I said, my voice startling Faramir out of some contemplation. "What followed their envoy's mission? You said they held off attacking until full dark?"

"Yes. Then they set to with their catapults, with the burning missiles of which I told you."

I nodded. "They used them at Cair Andros, as well."

"We exchanged fire with them for some hours, just hurling potshots into the dark. I'd forbidden the lighting of any torches or campfires, and their commander must have done the same. The only light anywhere was where their missiles exploded and our tents caught alight. Perhaps that saved a few of us, if they could not see us well enough to fire at … but it also meant it took us longer, before we realised they were bridging the River."

The harsh note in my brother's voice told me he was doing the same thing that I would do, in his place: analysing every loss and failure, and taking the blame for each of them onto himself.

He went on, "We held two hours or thereabouts, before their Captain grew impatient. He sent his riders into battle. And he rode in himself, to watch." Faramir's voice grew more distant, as though the events of the night unfolded themselves again before his eyes. "He rode in on the southernmost of their bridges, and their troops on that bridge hurled themselves in the water for fear. We could scarce see him; even the light of the fires seemed to recoil from him. But we heard him. We heard all of them. And our Men broke."

Faramir shook his head. "It was the same as last summer, Boromir. The same, and worse. Our numbers were greater tonight than they were then, yet we still could not hold our ground. I saw brave Men, veterans of battles from before you and I were born, throw down their swords and run. They ran, and no plea or threat could stop them. It was all I could do to enforce some kind of order; to find Men enough who still had their wits about them, that could lead the rest in ordered retreat to the Rammas instead of letting them scatter like so many sheep."

He turned toward me with a pained, bitter smile. The thought struck me that dawn must be coming on, even though the sky seemed as pitch as ever. I could clearly see the expression on Faramir's face, though we had ridden far past the point where the fires in Osgiliath cast any light upon us.

"Do you want to hear the good part?" he asked. "Their Captain spoke to me. Or I thought he did, in my mind. And he must have been taking lessons from Father. He told me Gondor would fall, and I could do nothing to save it – because I will never be half the Man that my brother was."

Hatred stabbed through me. I wished that I had the Black Captain within my reach. I wanted nothing more than to tear him limb from limb, although when it came to it, I did not know if in fact he had any limbs.

I snarled, "I hope you told him where he could stick himself."

Faramir's smile seemed to lose some of its bitterness. "Well," he said, "I think I shouted something about how he should face me, and try just how much of a Man I am. He didn't seem interested in that proposition. He rode back over the bridge, and he didn't appear again as far as I know, until just as the battle was ending. But …"

He shuddered. "It was as if I felt him breathing on me. On my face, just as he rode away. He was nowhere near me, but I felt him breathe. A breath like the coldest wind I have ever felt."

I snorted. "If all he can do is breathe on us, I hardly think we need fear him. What are you talking about, anyway? What do you mean you couldn't hold the Men back from retreat? Who are these fellows, then, and what were they doing, if not holding their ground? It didn't _look_ as though they were running in terror when we joined the fray."

Faramir nodded. "About a company's worth volunteered to remain behind, to hold the foe while the rest made good their retreat."

"There, you see? Captain Icy Breath has got another thought coming to him, if he thinks that Gondor's just going to roll over and play dead."

My brother laughed softly. "I'll be sure to tell him that, the next time I feel him breathing on me." He gazed around us for a moment, then turned to look at the eastern sky. "Do you think the sky's getting lighter?"

"I think so," I nodded. "Must be dawn. Or it's dawn somewhere, anyway."

As we rode on, my thoughts turned back to the Black Captain and his riders.

_Nazgûl_, Mithrandir had said they were. Ringwraiths, the spirits of the nine kings Sauron had snared with his promises of power. If Mithrandir was correct, then the dark beings we had met in combat twice now at Osgiliath were the same as the black riders who had tracked the Hobbits, from their Shire all the way to Rivendell. They were the same as the shadow that dove at us over Anduin, the first night the Fellowship came under fire from the eastern shore.

What was the Black Captain waiting for? I wondered. If he and his henchmen had such power they could send armies fleeing from their very presence, why had they not finished us off? Why did they scream from the distance, taunt us and torment us, yet not close for the kill?

He whom I had seen this night, over the fight on the bridge, he of the icy crown and the sword of pallid flame – did he _have_ any real weapon other than terror?

And if he did, when did he plan on using it?

Was it simply that he could he afford only to appear for brief snatches of time, as the fear he inspired in us was called forth also from his own troops?

A realisation hit me.

I had not been afraid.

When the dark horseman flew over us I had thrown myself down, to avoid getting the hooves of his mount in my skull. But his cry called forth no terror from within me.

Nor, I thought, did a similar cry bring that horrible fear to me, when the Rangers, Svip and I were hiding in the midst of the Orc army.

I had seen the fear in the others then, and had tried to reassure them. It had not occurred to me before now, that I'd not felt that fear myself.

It was different indeed from the last battle we fought at Osgiliath. The horror I had felt then as the Black Captain rode toward us, made it the most difficult thing I had ever done just to stand my ground, and not hurl down my sword and run.

I asked, "What did you feel when you met the Black Captain this time? Was it the same as before?"

"I felt afraid," he said quietly. "As if everything that I dread the most was right there in front of me, and the only choice I had left was to run."

"It was the same, then?" I urged. "The same this time and last summer?"

He thought about it. "Yes. Yes, I think it was. Why?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. Just thinking aloud. It's nothing."

It seemed that the day had brought us all the light it would be able to muster. Visibility was no more than about twenty yards, but it was at least an improvement over the night.

Our course had taken us gradually uphill, along the smooth paving stones of the Causeway Road. To right and left beyond the Causeway's walls stretched the rocky, gully-pitted slope of the riverbank, separating the Osgiliath Flats from the plains of the Pelennor above.

On any normal day the white wall of Rammas Echor would be well within view, crowning the riverbank's crest. We should be able by now to see the towers of the Causeway Forts, looming above us with the white wall extending to either side.

I looked over at Faramir. Some of his grim weariness seemed banished, as though even this mockery of daylight had brought him hope.

I hated to pile more trouble on his shoulders. But it occurred to me that he had likely heard no report of Captain Eradan's wounding. It was no kindness to keep him in ignorance of it. He would want to know sooner rather than later.

"Faramir," I said, "Eradan was wounded during the withdrawal from Cair Andros. He took a spearpoint in the shoulder. Auda says the wound itself is not serious, but it may have been poisoned. I don't know how he is; I've had no update since yesterday evening."

Concern darkened his gaze once more. He nodded. "You sent your wounded ahead to the Forts?" he asked me.

"Yes," I confirmed.

Further discussion was forestalled by commotion in the road ahead of us. We drew in rein.

A handful of Men had ceased marching. They were gathered around a horse that even through the dusk I recognised as Svip.

The Men on the road were helping to ease Svip's wounded passengers from his back. Svip glanced over at me, with a look I could only interpret as ashamed, though I was not sure how I thought I could read that expression on the face of a horse.

My comrade from the bridge walked up to me, saluting. "My Lord," he said, striving manfully to keep his voice matter-of-fact, "your horse says that he cannot carry the Men any farther. He says he's too far from the River."

"Damn it," I whispered. "I forgot."

Faramir ordered, "Help one to mount up behind me; Lord Boromir will take the other."

"My Lord," one of the wounded Men began, "there's no need –"

"There is every need. We are not far from the Forts, but there's no sense in making those wounds worse if we can avoid it."

Their companions helped the two of them to hobble over to us, and boosted them up behind our saddles. The Man behind me hissed in pain, a sound for which I scarcely blamed him, since he had a broken bone sticking out of his shin. Svip the horse stood aside dejectedly, huddling back against the Causeway wall as the others moved away from him.

"Svip," I called. "Come over here. You can ride in front of me."

My comrade from the battle and a few other Men glanced curiously at Svip. They broke out in hastily stifled exclamations as the big grey horse vanished and a green, long-faced halfling appeared in his place. The Man with the broken leg grabbed my arm to steady himself, then he apologised, "I beg your pardon, My Lord."

"Don't worry about it," I said, turning to look at him. "What's your name?"

"Mardil Son of Svientopolk, Sir."

"Then, Mardil, don't be afraid to hold on. We don't need you falling off." I looked over at Svip again. "Svip, come on. It's all right."

Svip hesitated, then he walked swiftly over to me. I leaned over, grabbed his hand and swung him up before me to sit on the horse's neck. The animal whickered nervously, but soon steadied.

As we moved on, Faramir seemed deep in his own thoughts again, though once I did notice him look over at us. He smiled at the sight of the triple-burdened horse, with the soldier clutching onto me and Svip perched up in front.

I asked Svip in the attempt to make conversation, "Have you ridden horseback before?"

"No," he said, almost too quietly to be heard. "Never."

"Well, now you can have the other half of the experience. There are few who get both to be a horse and to ride one."

Svip whispered, still all but inaudible, "I'm sorry. I carried them as far as I could."

"It's my fault," I told him. "You told me the shape-shifting couldn't last far from the River. I should have remembered."

He went on, "I didn't want to speak in horse form until you'd told them about me, but I had to. I didn't think I could go any farther without changing. I didn't want to drop them."

"Svip," I said, "these Men have battled the Dark Lord's legions, and their Captain-General has come back from the dead. They ought to be able to accept the concept of a talking horse."

He whispered, "Right."

The conversation died. As we rode, I pondered what our distance from the River might mean for me.

I had fallen easily out of the habit of thinking of it. The habit was new to me, and our path over these last few days had kept us close to Anduin.

When I made my short-lived voyage through the hills near Svip's house, it had seemed that I could go five miles or so, before I felt any ill effects.

If that held true, I should have nothing to fear. The Causeway Forts were only four miles from the River.

But there were other questions. Even if the distance itself did not hurt me, I did not know what effect length of time might have. The longest I had strayed from the River since my death was that night and day spent hiding in the barn. That barn had been a good deal closer to Anduin than four miles.

What if I found that my strength and resilience diminished, the longer I spent apart from Anduin?

And while Minas Tirith itself stood scarce five miles from the River, the direct road across the plain from the Rammas reached at one point, I thought, to at least ten miles distant.

Unless our ancestors and all the gods came to fight at our side, it was a foregone conclusion that we would withdraw from Rammas Echor to the City, just as we had withdrawn from Osgiliath.

When we did, I might have to take another route, one that kept my course nearer to the water. I would do my City and our people little good if I reached home on the brink of death.

Svip spoke, interrupting my thoughts. "I can see a wall up ahead."

I said, "That's the Rammas Echor." I saw nothing of it yet myself, though now that I looked for them, I thought I could see tiny pinpricks of torchlight.

"What is it?" Svip asked.

"The wall enclosing the Pelennor Fields – the farmlands around Minas Tirith. My grandfather started the construction. The earthworks and part of the wall were built in his time; the rest was completed under my father."

That was not strictly true, I believed, but I did not mention that to Svip. I held, as did my father, to the argument that the wall was not yet complete. From its southernmost tip at the mountain's feet, to the northmost milecastle where the wall turns back toward the mountain, Rammas Echor was constructed of the same white mountainstone as the circles of Minas Tirith. But the north stretch of wall, ramparts, milecastles and all, was of wood construction only.

Popular wisdom held that the north was shielded by our allies of Rohan, and that Gondor's soldiery were better employed elsewhere than in building needless walls. We had few enough soldiers to man our forts and outposts. And the payment that the Stonemasons' Guild consistently demanded for the job was such as to cripple the treasury. Time and again negotiations had stalled, the Council had voted down the needed Men and money, and my father had given up in disgust and shelved the project for another year.

I wondered now if in the present crisis the stonemasons had remembered their civic duty, or if my father had set the troops to building after all. Or if even yet a flimsy rampart of wood guarded our northern flank. We could hardly claim now that the north was safe from assault, with Rohan itself attacked and the army that had taken Cair Andros presumably headed our way.

I spared Svip my fears and the lesson in Gondorian politics, and said, "We're almost home. On a normal day you'd be able to see Minas Tirith from the wall."

_Valar_, I thought, _how I wish this were a normal day_.

At last I saw the towers above us, looming greyly through the haze. We rode past the black iron doors of the fortress gate, standing open for our troops to pass within.

Under the arched ceiling of the gate it seemed startlingly bright. The torches on the walls seemed to burn, by contrast with this day, with the brilliance of the sun.

Faramir and I glanced at each other. Both of us smiled, though I thought I could still read sorrow in my brother's eyes.

We rode from under the gate into the main thoroughfare of the fortress. From the towers to either side of us, the trumpets rang in the call used only for members of the Steward's household, welcoming us home.

Of one accord we made for the Houses of Healing. We rode past the great square towers of the Causeway Forts, past the stables, the smithy and the long, low rows of barracks buildings, past the kitchens, and finally to the Houses, by the back wall of the fortress. We dismounted – I holding Svip in one arm, and talking calmingly to reassure both him and the horse, which did not seem to care for the unknown creature moving about behind its head – and assisted our other passengers to the ground.

Several of the Healers' assistants hastened from the building and took charge of our two wounded. As Mardil and his comrade were led hobblingly away, and other Men stepped forward to lead the horses to the stable, I turned to Faramir.

I said, "We'd better seize a moment for introductions; we're not like to have another. Svip, may I make known to you my brother the Lord Faramir Son of Denethor, Captain of Ithilien. Faramir, this is my friend and comrade Svip of Anduin. I owe him my life – several times over."

Faramir knelt down, to place his gaze on a level with Svip's. He said, "I bid you welcome with all of my heart. Gondor owes you such a debt of gratitude that your name will be famed in the annals of our country –" a melancholy smile touched his face as he added, "if any of us live long enough for the annals to be written. The gratitude I owe you is deeper than I can speak, save to give you my thanks and to wish that I could welcome you to Gondor in fairer times."

Svip gave a courtly bow of the head. "It is an honour to meet you, My Lord," Svip said, "as it has been my honour to serve your brother and your country."

Svip hesitated a moment, then he held out his hand to Faramir. My brother and the water creature solemnly shook hands.

An officer hurried up to us. As he approached, I recognised Lieutenant Siriondil, commanding the Causeway Forts. Faramir stood, and the lieutenant saluted. He looked from one to the other of us in understandable confusion, uncertain whether to address the younger brother in command of this operation, or the elder brother known far and wide to be dead.

Siriondil solved the difficulty by addressing both of us. "My Lords. If it meets with your approval, I have sent the majority of the Osgiliath troops to the barracks, to take what rest they can. One hundred I have sent to reinforce the milecastles and bring their garrisons word of our situation. We have redoubled the watch upon the wall, and moved all of our siege engines into place upon the wall and the towers."

Faramir glanced at me, and I nodded for him to reply. "Very well, Lieutenant," he said. "Warn the sentries to be extra vigilant. We left our foes close behind us at Osgiliath, and they will seek to use this darkness to their greatest advantage. I will consult with the Healers, then if my brother has no other plans, he and I will retire to our quarters. Please see to it that food is brought there; we will be there shortly. And see that we are sent for the instant there is any word of the enemy's movements."

"Yes, My Lord," said Siriondil, saluting once more and making a speedy departure.

"I'm going to check on Eradan," Faramir said to me, as the Lieutenant hastened away.

I nodded. "So will I. There are others that Svip and I should check on, as well."

As we stepped through the doorway into the main hall of the Houses of Healing, the thought came to me that something was wrong. What it might be, I could not yet seize upon.

Many of the beds in their long rows were occupied. The House had its usual smells: blood and infection and all the smells of suffering, alongside the Healers' herbs. The sharper odour of herbs ground down for medicines blended with the scent of those still in the earth, creeping through the open windows from the garden along the fortress wall. From this room and the others down the corridor from it, we heard cries and murmurs of pain, and the voices of the Healers, in most cases low and calm, but occasionally sounding forth in urgent shouts.

I thought suddenly, _That is what's different_.

There was not enough noise.

For the number of beds occupied, I expected to hear more. I did not think I had set foot in any House of Healing so quiet in the aftermath of battle. At least, not after any battle that had survivors.

We made our way between rows of beds, Svip sticking close by my side. There were faint smiles and greetings from some of the Men as we passed, and from others came the tormented words of delirium. But I was sure, now, that I did not hear enough. Too many of the Men seemed insensible and still. I would have thought them dead but for the rise and fall of their chests, and an occasional whisper too low to be heard.

Faramir glanced at me, his expression holding the same dread and bafflement as I felt. As we walked, one of Svip's hands closed around mine.

Hurrying toward us was the grey-bearded and barrel-chested Aranarth, Chief Healer of the Causeway Forts. He gave us a perfunctory "My Lords," nodded at Svip as though green halflings were everyday sights to him, and spoke in a low, urgent voice, "What foe have you met? Is the end, then, indeed come upon us?"

"What do you mean?" Faramir asked quietly.

Aranarth shook his head, biting his lip and raking one hand through his hair. "On many of these Men lies a malady we have not seen before – nor can we see a remedy for it. What wound or illness makes so many Men lie still and cold, as though death seized them before they ceased to breathe? Why do so many with wounds that should be little threat to them, slide into delirium and from thence into the silence of the grave?"

Faramir and I looked helplessly at each other, and both shook our heads. "I'm sorry, Aranarth," Faramir said. "I don't know. We have met with the Black Captain and his henchmen. Perhaps it's some curse of theirs."

The Healer sighed heavily, gazing at the floor. Then he squared his shoulders and looked up once more. "You are welcome, at any rate, My Lords." He cast a keen glance at me. "Are the Sons of Denethor immune to death?"

"I hope so," I said ruefully. "And I hope it can rub off upon the rest of our Men."

"Has Captain Eradan been brought to you?" Faramir inquired.

"Aye, My Lord," Aranarth said. "And he at least is awake, which seems a miracle on this day."

The Healer and Faramir set out toward a row of beds by the windows. At first Svip and I followed. Then Svip gave a cry and ran to another bed a few rows away, where one Man sat in a chair and the other stood, watching over the bed's occupant.

I hurried after Svip. The seated Man, whom I saw now to be Captain Cirion, rose to his feet at my approach. Standing behind the Ranger Captain's chair was young Holgar. It was with no surprise that I recognised their comrade in the bed as Thorolf.

"My Lord," Cirion and Holgar each greeted me.

Svip asked anxiously, "How is he?" But the answer was all too clear.

Thorolf Son of Eyjolf lay in the same silent sleep as Aranarth had described. He had the pallor and stillness of death, and I would have thought him dead indeed, if not for his shallow breath and a sheen of sweat upon his forehead.

"How long has he been thus?" I asked.

Cirion shrugged, looking grimly down at his comrade. "Since some time on the journey to Osgiliath, My Lord, as near as we can reckon. Some of the other wounded from the ship say they noticed when he stopped speaking, partway through the night. I would think it the effect of the poison –" he paused and looked about him into the dim, quiet room – "were it not for these others in the same state. Has the enemy taken to using the same poison on all of their weapons? Even on their catapult shot? There's one at least here in this shadow sleep, that I know has suffered no wound but for having his shoulder smashed with a boulder!"

I could only once more helplessly shake my head. "I don't know," I said. "I'm sorry. Likely it's some device of the Enemy, to avoid risking his creatures in combat. The more of us he finishes off through witchcraft, the fewer of his minions will fall to our blades."

The Ranger Captain snarled, "Then he'd best finish all of us at once. I intend to kill ten of his creatures at least, for each of our Men thus struck down."

Faramir walked over to us. The two Rangers bowed.

"How is Eradan doing?" I asked.

"All right, I think," said Faramir. "He's awake, and talking. He has a low fever, probably, but nothing like …this." He swept his hand in a gesture that included the rest of that unnaturally quiet House.

Cirion sighed. "Then that at least is one thing to be thankful for, My Lords."

Holgar, I noticed, was staring down at Thorolf. There was a desperate note to his voice as he whispered, "Is there nothing we can do?"

I looked around at my companions. Cirion and Faramir both were frowning but calm, but Holgar and Svip looked on the verge of tears.

I thought that I saw a way to kill two birds with one stone.

"Svip," I said, "there is much yet that Lord Faramir and I must discuss. Will you allow me to suggest that Holgar give you a tour of the Fort? If, that is, Captain Cirion can spare him from his duties."

"I believe I can spare him for now, My Lord," Cirion stated.

Svip looked up at Holgar, who managed a shaky smile.

"I'm not trying to keep you out of battle, Svip, I promise you," I added. "When the foe is upon us again, I'll be glad and honoured to fight at your side."

Svip gave me one of his long, searching looks. Finally he smiled.

"Shall we go, Svip?" Holgar offered.

As Svip and Holgar departed, Faramir and I took our leave as well. We walked back along the main road at the centre of the fortress, toward the towers and the wall.

It seemed, I thought, that every torch in the place was lit, in the effort to hold the dark at bay. In the added light, I was struck with new force by how very tired Faramir looked. Once again I cursed myself for ever leaving Gondor, for leaving him to deal both with the Enemy and with our father, alone.

"You look terrible," I told him. "You need to get some sleep."

"Oh, no," he said, with an emphatic shake of his head.

"What do you mean, 'Oh, no?'"

"I'm not getting any sleep and neither are you, until you've told me how you managed to come home."

"Oh," I said. "That."

We climbed the stairs of the North Tower, past guard room, armoury, another guard room, and finally to the living quarters at the level of the wall. This was the chamber reserved for the Forts' highest-ranking visitors; the equivalent room in the South Tower belonged to the Commander of the Forts. This room would be our father's if he were here, but it was long since he had visited the Causeway.

I tried to think of how long it must have been since he had stayed here. Perhaps, I thought, since we'd stopped on our return from the Cair Andros campaign of 2993, when I had my first real taste of combat. The wound I'd sustained on that campaign made Father more demonstrative of his concern for me than usual, and he'd ordered that I share the room with him, rather than sleep in the barracks. I grimaced as I thought of it, remembering Father's unceasing lecture on how bravery in battle was not the same as rushing headlong onto the enemy's swords, and if I was ever stupid enough to get myself injured like that again, he'd thrash me to within an inch of my life.

The fire had been lit, and a pot emitting the most desperately enticing smells hung from a tripod on the hearth. Bread and two bowls had been placed on the table. I picked up the bowls and crossed to the fireplace, but as I was ladling out the soup I paused, struck by how very welcome the warmth of the fire felt. I had not realised what a chill had crept into my bones. It was stupid, I thought, that I should be feeling cold, in these warm, sultry days with no hint of breeze.

"Boromir," Faramir said. "Are you awake?"

"What? Yes. Sorry."

I finished serving the soup and brought the bowls back to the table. Faramir, meanwhile, had been filling two goblets with water from a jug on the sideboard, the wall behind it hidden by a tapestry showing Old Osgiliath in all its glory. As I took the goblet he handed me, I found myself staring at the tapestry's rendition of the Dome of Stars. I wondered how much the Dome would cost to rebuild.

"Boromir," Faramir repeated, a threat sounding in his voice. "Sit. And talk."

I sighed. "So I really can't get out of it?" I joked feebly.

"No. Sit."

We sat. And I talked.

I began, "Did Mithrandir tell you of the mission that he and I, and the rest of them, had undertaken? Of the meaning to the riddle in our dreams?"

He frowned and hesitated, then he said quietly, "Yes. I have heard of it."

"Good," I said. And I promptly skipped over all the tale of the Fellowship, until the day that I died.

I told him of my death and the weeks that followed, from the fight at Amon Hen all the way to our precipitous entry into the battle at Osgiliath.

Faramir listened intently, interrupting now and again with questions mostly about Svip – how his house was constructed, how long his people lived, how many of them there were, how large a territory each held, whether all of them lived in Anduin or if they inhabited other rivers, whether Svip had learned the Common Tongue from his mother or from others such as the Elves he'd mentioned encountering, whether all of them built up their collections as avidly as did Svip. All were questions for which I did not know the answers, and I could only say that he would have to ask Svip.

As difficult as it had been to begin the tale, once I had started it was equally difficult to stop. I talked, my meal sitting neglected, and the intensity with which Faramir listened meant that both of us ended up with thoroughly cooled soup.

At last I thought I had told him everything there was to tell. The soup intruded on my senses again, and I wolfed it down, reflecting on how much I would have given for this soup while I was munching waterplants with Svip.

Faramir sat silent, gazing frowningly into nothing.

"You should eat," I told him.

He blinked, nodded, and obediently swallowed a few spoonfuls. Meanwhile, I stood up, eyeing the room's two beds and wondering if we'd have time for a few hours' sleep before the enemy again required our attention.

I would have a lie down, anyway, I decided. I did not want to think of how long it had been since I'd encountered an actual bed.

I took off my belt and tossed it to the table, then flung my cloak and outer tunic onto the empty chair.

"Valar," I grimaced. "I'll really know I've made it home when I can get out of these damned clothes and have a decent bath."

Faramir had a strange, frozen look on his face, as he gazed at my belt on the table. I wondered if he was going to scold me for tossing my clothes around the room. "What's the matter with you?" I asked him.

He got to his feet, still staring at the belt as though he half expected it to spring from the table and bite him. "Where did you get that belt?" he asked, his voice little over a whisper.

"Oh, a parting gift from the Lothlórien Elves. Their polite way of telling me 'good riddance to bad rubbish.' Do you want it? I'll probably never wear it again, except maybe at the reception for some Elven ambassador, if any of them ever condescend enough to _send_ us an ambassador. You can have it if you like."

"No!" he said, with a vehemence that startled me. "I don't want it."

"What's eating you?" I demanded. I didn't think he would be offended at me offering him a hand-me-down. But, then, I supposed he'd been fifteen or so the last time I gave him any hand-me-downs, so how did I know what he'd think of it, two decades later?

Faramir said, "I saw you wearing that belt in my vision."

"Oh," I said. I noticed that I was feeling chilled again, grabbed the cloak and shrugged it back over my shoulders, and sat down on the foot of the bed, near the fireplace. "What did you see?" I asked quietly. "I've told my epic, after all. It's your turn."

Faramir picked up his goblet and crossed to the sideboard to refill it. He did not drink from the goblet at once, instead gazing out of the arrow slit window toward the River and our foes. At last he turned back into the room, leaning against the wall and gazing at me as he spoke, as though he still believed I might vanish at any instant.

"It was two weeks ago," he said. "Three nights after Father and I had heard the Horn of Gondor.

"I'd gone back to Osgiliath. I was sitting on the ruins of the old quay that night, watching the water. There was a young moon. I didn't hear any movement from the enemy; all I heard was the River moving by, and the reeds.

"Then I saw a boat floating on the water, glimmering grey, a small boat of strange fashion with a high prow, and there was none to row or steer it.

"An awe fell on me, for a pale light was around it. I rose and walked out into the stream. Then the boat turned toward me, and stayed its pace, and floated slowly by within my hand's reach, yet I dared not touch it. It seemed that it was filled with clear water, from which the light came. And under the water you lay, Boromir, as if asleep – and yet I knew you were dead.

"Your sword lay broken on your knees. I saw many wounds upon you. I recognised your clothes, your sword, everything. The only thing I looked for and did not see was the Horn. The only thing about you I didn't recognise was that belt of golden leaves. I think I spoke to you … I cried out, asking you where your horn was, where you were going. But you didn't speak or move, and then you were gone. The boat turned in to the stream again, and passed glimmering into the night."

As he stopped speaking, my brother's eyes lingered on me for a moment longer. Then a long shudder shook him. He looked away and took a drink from his goblet.

I stood up and crossed to him, putting my hand on his shoulder.

"Damn it," I whispered. "I'm sorry. I think that was my fault."

He looked back at me. "Your fault?" he echoed, with a pale, confused smile.

"Yes. I had a dream, a nightmare, that was just the same. It must have been – yes, I think it was – the same night. Two weeks ago, you said? Three nights after I died?"

Faramir nodded. "If you died the day we heard the Horn, then yes."

"Yes," I muttered, almost to myself. "That must be right. It was the first night Svip and I spent in the swamp. I was sleeping in the Elven boat. And I dreamed that same thing. That I was floating down the River in that boat, that there was water above me, that I couldn't move – and that I saw you through the water, standing over the boat, calling to me." I shook my head. "You weren't attacked that night, though, were you?"

"No," said Faramir.

"I dreamed that you were. I dreamed some enemy rushed you, out of the dark. That's what I was dreaming when I woke up." I sighed, gripping his shoulder harder. "I must have been having a nightmare and it passed to you. Or else you were having a vision and it got into my dream."

He frowned. "Why would I have a vision of you dead, when you were already alive again?"

"I don't know. It sounds like it was accurate enough, as far as it goes. Maybe it just got the timing wrong."

He gazed down into the water in his goblet. "I didn't even think it was a vision, really," he said. "I thought it was real. I believed I had truly seen you, your body, floating to the sea. I thought that perhaps the Elven boat's magic had safeguarded your body in the passage through Rauros, and the River would carry you on past your home, across the sea to the Undying Lands." He looked up and smiled at me. "I guess I was wrong."

I didn't know what to say. I thought that I had to turn the conversation onto something light, at once, or I was going to cry.

"You didn't have any visions about where my pack's got to, did you?" I asked, walking to my chair and sitting down again. "I suppose Mithrandir and Pippin didn't mention it?"

"No," said Faramir. "Why?"

"Oh, it's nothing. It's stupid. It doesn't matter. Just two months' worth of work gone to hell, that's all."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, sitting down at the table as well and making another desultory attempt at eating his cold soup.

"Oh," I said irritably, "we were two months at Imladris after I got there, before we finally set forth. I spent most of that time in Lord Elrond's library, copying out things that I thought you'd be interested in. Records of the Eldar and the Elf-friends and the War of the Jewels, Númenorean histories, that sort of thing. I copied a lot of maps for myself, too. Anyway, they're gone now. They were in my pack, so I suppose they're in the River, or getting rained on, or some birds are making nests out of them."

Faramir was staring at me, with a smile of disbelief. "You spent two months in a _library_?"

"Well, what else was I going to do? A Man can only listen to so much poetry."

His expression got even more incredulous, and I grinned. "Lord Elrond was surprised about it, too. He said that he had not heard that the Lord Denethor's elder son was such a scholar. I told him that the elder son was not, but that he was copying the manuscripts for his brother. You know, I'm sure if we live through this, Elrond would be happy to have you visit. He was very accommodating; gave me the run of his library and let me have all the ink and pens and parchment I needed. I'm sure they probably locked away a few documents they didn't want outsiders to see, but who wouldn't? He'd be delighted to see you, I'm sure of it. He'd probably be thrilled to have a real Gondorian scholar come to visit him, instead of a fake one."

Faramir grinned and shook his head. "I'm still trying to deal with the thought of you spending more than an hour in a library."

I rolled up a ball of bread in my hand and threw it at him. "Don't tempt my wrath, youngster," I threatened.

He ducked and the bread ball sailed over his head. Then he scooped up a large chunk of carrot in his spoon, and started mentally calculating the trajectories for using the spoon as a catapult.

"I surrender!" I exclaimed, holding up my hands in entreaty. "Seriously, Faramir, I know Lord Elrond would welcome you. He's a very decent fellow, for an Elf."

Faramir put the spoon back in his bowl, then he stared into nothingness again, his brow furrowed in thought.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked.

He looked at me for a long moment before speaking. Then he asked me, "What sort of a Man is this Aragorn with whom you travelled?"

The question caught me by surprise. I scowled, but finally I said, "I believe he is a good Man."

Faramir must have learned of Aragorn's identity, I thought, or he would not be asking that question. All the same, I asked, "You know who he is?"

He nodded. "I know who he claims to be, yes," he said carefully. "What do you think of his claim?"

"Well. That's the real question, isn't it?" I stood up and started to pace about the room as I spoke. "I believe he's who he says he is. Or, I believe that _he_ believes it, and that it's likely true – and that at any rate no one's likely to prove otherwise, not unless one could go back in time and examine each step of his lineage, to ensure no one was born on the wrong side of the bedsheets. So, he is Aragorn Son of Arathorn, heir many, many generations down, to the Kings of Arnor and Arthedain. The question is, what does that mean for his claim to the throne of Gondor?"

I stopped pacing and looked at Faramir. "You're the scholar. You tell me. If he's claiming Gondor through his right as Heir of the North-Kingdom, is that or is that not the same claim that the Council rejected in 1950, or whatever it was?"

Faramir nodded solemnly. "Yes. It is. It was 1944, when Arvedui claimed the crown of Gondor and the Council rejected his claim. I went to the library and looked it up after I got out of conference with Father last night – I mean, night before last, now. Arvedui claimed the throne as the direct descendant of Isildur and the husband of Fíriel of Gondor, and the Council decreed that the crown and royalty of Gondor passes solely to the heirs of Anárion, and there's to be no succession through the female line." He looked at me earnestly for a moment, then went on, "The question is, was the Council's decision in 1944 the right one? And is it a decision that we would choose to uphold now?"

He stood up, clutching the back of his chair. "Boromir," he said, "you say you believe he's a good Man. Do you believe that he would be a good king?"

I did not want to answer that question. But I held my brother's gaze, and I said, "He'd be a decent enough king, yes. What I want to know is why we should have a king at all."

I sighed, wishing we had something stronger to drink than water, and wondering if I'd find any wine if I rummaged around in the cupboards. "I suppose Mithrandir's been giving you the Aragorn Party arguments," I said sourly. "About how Gondor's gone downhill, and if only we had a king again everything would be lovely, and Sauron would go away nicely like a good little Dark Lord, and the flowers would bloom again."

Faramir frowned. "No," he said. "Mithrandir hasn't spoken to me of him. Or, not much, anyway. I heard of him from –"

He paused in mid-sentence, studying me with troubled gaze. Then he seemed to come to a decision. He sighed, then continued in a firmer tone, "Boromir, I've met others of your company, who were with you on the journey from Imladris. It was from them that I heard of Lord Aragorn and his claim."

"Others?" I repeated. "Who?"

"Five days ago, in the glades of Ithilien near Henneth Annûn, my Men and I encountered the halfling Frodo Son of Drogo."

If he'd told me that he'd just concluded a peace treaty with the Dark Lord Sauron himself, I could scarcely have been more surprised.

"You met Frodo?" I exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? Was he all right? Was Sam with him? Where are they?" As my questions ran down, it occurred to me that I was starting to sound like Svip. I took a deep breath and shook my head. "Sorry," I said. "Just tell me everything." I clamped my jaw firmly shut before I could start rattling off any more questions.

Faramir looked startled at my outburst, then his startlement seemed to change into another expression that I couldn't quite interpret. Suspicion, perhaps, and some sort of dread. But he answered calmly enough, "His servant was with him, yes. We found them camped just west of the highway. They stayed that night with us at Henneth Annûn and he told me something of your journey together, then at dawn, four days past, they headed south through the forest."

His recital abruptly stopped. I waited, expecting him to say more, but my brother remained silent. I stared at him in growing disbelief.

"You just let them go? What were you thinking? The Enemy's hordes are crawling all over that place, and you let two Halflings go strolling away like they're off for a walk in their garden?"

Faramir's face set stubbornly. "There wasn't much else I could do," he said. "They would not be turned from their path, and we had not the leisure to debate it with them."

I groaned. "And you didn't even send any troops with them? Even a few Men would be worth something. Anborn would have gone if you sent him, he knows that country, he could have helped them …"

My brother said in a sharp tone, "I'm not sure they would have trusted any Man to journey with them," but my thoughts were racing onward and I barely heard him.

"Did they tell you nothing of the route they planned? This is insane. They don't know that land, how are they going to find their way? Did they not have a map, or anything? Four days ago … Perhaps there's still time, we could send a small force to escort them – no, that's stupid, we'd just be sacrificing our men – curse it, they're probably already dead by now. I don't believe this, Faramir! How could you let them go?"

Faramir said, "I did not see that I had any right to stop them. And what shelter could I offer them? Gondor is scarce safer today than Mordor." He added in a gloomy undertone, "Mordor may be safer."

"Not for them! Not with what they carry –"

And then I finally thought of a meaning for my brother's grim, dread-filled expression. My heart sank like lead to the pit of my stomach.

"Oh, damn it," I said. "He told you, didn't he?"

Faramir gazed at me with a tormented look in his eyes. He said quietly, "He told me you tried to take the Ring."

I met his gaze. "Yes. I did."

I felt a mixture of anger and regret. Regret that I had been revealed to my brother as being a thoroughly tarnished idol – although doubtless he had found that out already, long before now. And anger at him for judging me, for being on the right side of the argument as usual, and once again, anger that I had gone on the wretched quest to begin with.

"Go on," I said bitterly. "Tell me how evil I am. Tell me how much I've let down the whole race of Men. Say it to my face, I dare you."

Faramir looked miserably toward the floor. He murmured, "I'm sure you thought you were acting for the best."

Now I was angry at myself again. I kicked my chair away from me, sending it skidding along the stone floor. Then I sat down petulantly on the edge of the bed. "Of course I did," I said. "I always think I'm acting for the best. It's only afterwards that I have time to think about it and realise how badly I've messed everything up again."

I wondered how much Frodo had told Faramir of that last encounter between us. Whatever he had said, I was bound to come out of it looking like a monster or a fool. Or both. Snatches of the things I had said to him came rushing back to me. What an ass I had sounded like! _Lend me your ring, Frodo_. I sounded like a schoolboy begging some trinket with which to impress a girl, not like one of the leaders of a great country discussing a weapon that might have the power to save or destroy all of us.

Faramir was still standing there, staring at the floor. I looked up at him. "He was all right, wasn't he?" I asked, feeling the worry coil painfully around my guts. "Both of them? They weren't hurt, were they?"

"They seemed fine. Neither of them had been injured, as far as I could tell."

It suddenly seemed the most crucial thing to get that wretchedly unhappy look off my brother's face. "Faramir," I said, "just now – when I talked about sending troops – I wasn't thinking of trying to take the Ring again. I swear I was not. I don't want the bloody Ring, I just want them to be safe."

Faramir nodded automatically, but his expression hadn't changed. And I suddenly wondered, _How can I know that, for certain_? I thought I had suggested it for Frodo and Sam's good, but how could I really know?

I thought, _That is the damned thing about it, when the Ring speaks to you. You never realise it. You think the ideas you're having are your own, and they seem the best ideas imaginable. You believe with every part of you that all you have to do is follow those ideas through, and everything will turn out right._

"Faramir," I insisted desperately, "I never wanted to hurt them."

"I know that." Finally he looked at me. And he asked, in a hesitant whisper, "Did you – did you see it?"

"Yes. Yes, I saw it. Didn't you?"

He gave a vehement shake of his head. "No. I didn't want to ask him. I was afraid …" His words ran out helplessly again.

I felt my mouth twist in a bitter smile. "Afraid he'd think you were just like me?"

"No," he whispered. "Afraid of what it might say to me. What –" He hesitated once more, then the curious scholar in him momentarily won out over everything else. "What is it like?" he asked.

"Just a gold ring. A small, plain, unmarked gold ring. Mithrandir said it has lettering on it you can read when you place it in fire, but I never saw that."

I sighed, rubbing my hands over my face.

"I should have let you go," I said heavily. "You were right. It should have been your quest. You would have loved it. All those damned Elves, and the chance to talk with old Mithrandir for days on end. You would have been in heaven, and I hated every minute of it. Only – only if you had gone and you'd died, I would never have forgiven myself."

Faramir smiled a bitter little smile of his own. "If I'd died it would have been my own doing, not yours. And Gondor would have been better off."

"Don't say that!" I snapped at him, jumping back up to my feet.

"It's true. It's what Father thinks. I should have gone and done my best to die heroically, and you should have stayed to save our country. Obviously it's more than I can manage."

I grabbed Faramir's arm, wanting to shake him until he stopped talking like that. "Did Father say that to you?" I asked, feeling sick.

His smile twisted as if he was trying not to vomit up the scant meal he'd bolted down. "Yes. Repeatedly."

I tightened my grip on his arm. "He doesn't know a good thing when he has it, brother. He's an old fool. When I see him next I'll tell him so."

"No, don't," Faramir said, suddenly looking worried. "This has been destroying him. When he learned of your death, Boromir, I – I thought it was going to kill him."

I let go of Faramir's arm and started pacing about the room. "I want to go to him," I heard myself whispering desperately. "I want to go to him, right now, but the longer we can hold the enemy here, the longer Minas Tirith has to strengthen its defences …"

What little strengthening could be done, I added to myself, knowing that my brother must be thinking the same thoughts. I wondered if we were right to attempt a stand here at all, rather than just getting our men to the City as swiftly as possible and adding our strength to the meagre forces there.

But the same argument came back, each time I thought of that: that every step the hordes of the Enemy took into our land was a victory for them, and every Orc and Easterling and Southron that we slew here was one who would not live to rape and plunder and slaughter in Minas Tirith.

Yet what did it matter if we slew thousands of them here, if tens of thousands yet survived to reach the White City?

"Reinforcements may yet reach us," said Faramir, trying to smile encouragingly. "The Rohirrim may yet come in time."

"Yes. They may." I smiled back at him, and we both knew that we did not believe it.

I sighed then, my thoughts turning once more to the halflings and their quest. Faramir was right; they probably were safer in the wilds of Mordor than here in the path of the horrors approaching Minas Tirith. Perhaps there was a slim chance of their success, after all. At least our destruction might keep the Enemy's attention occupied long enough; I supposed there was just a chance that Frodo might be able to toss the Ring into the fire before the Nameless One noticed it.

_Of course there is_, I thought scornfully, _and there's a chance that we'll live past tomorrow, but I wouldn't wager on it_.

"How did Frodo seem?" I asked Faramir suddenly. "Did he still have faith in his mission?"

"Yes. He did. He was afraid, I think, as who would not be, but he bore it with more faith and courage than most Men would do."

"Yes. That sounds like Frodo." I tried to convince myself, "They may yet make it. They're small; they can hide easily. No one would have thought they'd survive this far. They may yet make it."

"I believe they will," said Faramir. "And they do have a guide, though I hope they won't make the mistake of trusting him …"

This was news to me. "A guide? What guide?"

"A loathsome little creature with whom, they told me, they had travelled before. We caught him in the pool at Henneth Annûn and would have slain him, but Frodo placed the creature under his protection. Samwise didn't like it, no more than did I, but Frodo did seem to have some sort of power over him – perhaps the power of the Ringbearer. Perhaps it will be enough, Sméagol may yet guide them faithfully, as he promised – though it be against his will."

For a moment I just stared in stunned astonishment. Then the words rushed out of me, "Sméagol? You mean Gollum? And you left them alone with him? Faramir, are you mad? He'll murder them! He'll eat them alive! Valar's blood, you're afraid of what _I'd _do to them, yet you left them with _him_? Did you have any idea who he is?"

Faramir bore my latest outburst stolidly, his face as impassive and unyielding as a rock wall. Now he said, "Frodo told me Sméagol had borne the Ring for many years. Listen, Boromir, my heart misgave me just as yours does, but I do believe Frodo can control him. And Samwise will be on his guard. He is as fierce as a wolf in his master's defence; this Sméagol will not get past him."

I muttered, "Even wolves have to sleep." The despair and horror of all of this seemed settling around me like the black cloud that had devoured the sky. "You'll tell me I'm evil to think this," I said, "but I truly do not believe we'd be worse off if I'd brought the Ring to Minas Tirith, than we are now with Frodo and the Ring at the mercy of Gollum."

"I believe we would be," Faramir said softly. "I know it. I couldn't bear to watch it happen to you. I don't want to see you end up like Isildur."

I couldn't help but smile a little at that, even in the midst of all of this. It occurred to me how very similar, in some ways, my brother is to Aragorn. _With the exception,_ I thought, _of the fact that I love my brother, and at most times I'd cheerfully pitch Aragorn off the nearest cliff._

"I already did end up like him," I pointed out. "Dying in the wilderness as an arrow pincushion."

Faramir winced at that and ran one hand through his hair, then he grinned a little. "Yes, but you came back. Even Isildur didn't manage that."

"Let's see how many more miracles we can pull off, shall we?" I glanced around the room, and sighed. "The hell with it. I'm not going to get any sleep." I threw my cloak onto the bed and started putting on my outer tunic again. "What about you? Are you going to give it a try?"

He shivered. "No. I don't want to think what I'd dream."

"Then shall we inspect our defences, brother?"

"Yes. Let's."

I refastened the gold belt of Lórien about my waist, picked up my cloak, and started toward the door. Faramir put his hand on my arm, stopping me.

"Boromir," he said, looking into my face as though trying to seal it in his memory, "if you'd stayed dead I would have missed you all of my life."

"Doesn't look like that would be very long, at this rate." I smiled at him, closing my hand over his. "I would have missed you, too."

As we walked from the tower room out onto the white wall, the thought came to me that at least this time we would die together.


	12. Chapter Twelve: The Stormcrow and the Sh...

Author's Note (February 2003): Well, very sincere apologies to all the lovely readers who've been waiting for more of this! I did mean to post more of it sooner – a lot sooner – but the craziness of life, including Christmas, work and a car accident, got in the way.

Still, here it is at last! A couple of other notes: I am no poet, unlike Tolkien, so I unashamedly stole the song that appears near the end of this chapter. My respects and apologies to the Welshman who penned the original! And, apologies to David Wenham and his fans, but I'm afraid I am not a fan, and I do not approve of the interpretation of Faramir in Peter Jackson's _The Two Towers_. So, for the record, the Faramir who appears in this story is not the Faramir in the film! Oh, and following Tolkien's lead in this particular instance, I've decided that Boromir and Faramir in this version have black hair. I don't mind if you just picture this Boromir as Sean Bean with black hair, though – that's what I'm doing!

I hope you enjoy!

_Chapter Twelve: The Stormcrow and the Shadows _

The day dragged on in waiting and in shadow.

Faramir and I made the rounds of the wall, along the ramparts of the Causeway Forts and as far as to the first milecastles to north and south.

All seemed as prepared as it could be. The wall was well manned. The Men seemed alert, and for the moment, at least, calm, free of any such terror as had struck at Osgiliath. The catapults, as Lieutenant Siriondil had reported to us, were in place, manned and ready.

It must have been nearing the noon when our inspection was completed, yet the darkness was still impenetrable. Scarce an arrow's shot from the wall, the Causeway Road and the rocky ground simply vanished.

All seemed quiet – we could hear no drumming, no creaking of wagons, no tread of hoofbeats or marching feet. If the foe was advancing upon us, they did so with all the silence of the shadows they inhabited.

We tested both the catapults and the absence of our enemy, by ordering that the catapult crews fire makeshift torches into the road and the ravine to either side. Bundles of cloth – mostly fashioned of blankets stripped from the barracks that had been supplied to support a garrison twice our present numbers – were soaked in lamp oil, set alight, and fired into the dark.

The slope below us was free enough of vegetation that we had little fear of starting a conflagration. And there was little to be lost even had a brush fire started, for none of our folk now lived beyond the wall.

But the dots of flame from that first volley did not spread. And though they helped somewhat to pierce the darkness around them, they showed us no sign of the enemy's approach.

For now, it seemed that the enemy was waiting. And so must we.

On the wall of the North Fort, just outside the tower that housed our quarters, I once again found myself glowering over a parapet into black murk. Lieutenant Siriondil to my left and Faramir to my right seemed to have no better idea than I of what we could do to make this time of waiting more useful to us. When I turned to either side to look at them, both were frowning into the darkness.

I said to Siriondil, "The Men, at least, can pass the time watching for the torches to go out. I suppose that is better than nothing. See that a new volley is fired as each round of torches dies."

The Lieutenant saluted. I turned to Faramir again.

"Do you sense anything?" I asked him. "Any useful visions?"

"No." He smiled wanly. The question was one I had asked often enough over the years for him to be thoroughly sick of it. But perhaps this time it seemed another confirmation that I was truly the brother he remembered. He continued, "You know the visions don't come running whenever I deign to summon them."

"I know," I agreed. "And I still think it's bloody inconsiderate. If they're going to give you the kind of suffering they do, they could at least come when you ask for them."

Faramir sighed, but any further reply was forestalled by a respectful hail from across the rampart behind us. "My Lords."

Both of us turned, to see Svip and Holgar hurrying along the wall.

"Sirs," Holgar said, saluting as they approached. He glanced down at Svip and smiled, then said, "I beg to report that Svip has received a thorough tour of the Forts. We have visited the walls, barracks, armoury, parade ground, guard houses, stables, kitchens, bakehouse, refectory, laundry, storerooms, privies, and gardens." Holgar turned to Svip and asked, "Did I miss anything out?"

"The wine cellar," Svip added eagerly. "I've never seen so many different bottles! There were lots of types that I don't have in my collection."

"Wait till we get to Minas Tirith," I told him. "Our father's wine cellar puts this one to shame."

"Is anything happening?" Svip asked, craning his neck as if by stretching he could make himself tall enough to see over the wall.

"No," I said. "We're just getting bored."

Faramir said, "Svip, my brother has told me of your voyaging together. If it doesn't offend you, there are many questions I'd like to ask. I've never had the opportunity to speak with one of your people."

I smiled at the sound of that. The language was more courtly, but the sense of it was the same as something Svip had said to me, in those first days beneath the Falls of Rauros.

"Of course!" Svip said delightedly. "I've got some questions, too."

_I'll bet you have_, I thought. I wondered if Faramir had any concept of what he had got himself into. But then, Faramir could probably keep the questions going just as long as Svip could. If it were not for the fact that Sauron's forces were bound to strike sooner or later, this conversation could last until the end of the Age.

A sudden chill struck me, and against my will, I shivered. Both Faramir and Svip glanced at me sharply. "Do you want to go back inside?" Faramir offered.

"No, I'm fine," I said. "Let's walk some more; I'll warm up."

"Do you mind walking?" Faramir asked Svip. "You're not too tired?"

"Of course not!"

I turned to Holgar. "Thank you for your assistance," I told him. "You can return to your Company."

Holgar saluted, but he said, "My Lord, may I speak with you for a moment in private?"

I looked over at the others, and said, "You two go on ahead; I'll catch up with you."

Both of them hesitated, eyeing me worriedly as if to assure themselves that I was not about to keel over dead. Faramir nodded, still studying me. Then he turned to Svip. "All right?" he asked.

"Right," said Svip.

They set out together along the wall. Faramir had his hands clasped behind his back, and Svip quickly took up the same pose as he fell into step beside Faramir.

I grinned, wondering if Svip had been doing that with me, as well. If he had been imitating me all along, I was impressed with the Men's self-control in not laughing every time they saw us.

I turned back toward Holgar, and saw him also watching Svip and Faramir's departure, with a look that was mixed affection and worry.

"What was it you wanted to tell me?" I asked.

"Sir, how long has it been since Svip slept?"

I frowned and thought back. "I don't know. We know he slept in the harbour at Cair Andros – that would be three nights ago, now. I suppose he probably got some sleep on the ship, anyway …"

Holgar shook his head. "I don't think so, My Lord. Or not very much, at any rate. I was down in the hold with the wounded, and he was back and forth every few minutes checking on them, all night. I did sleep for a little while myself, but I kept waking up when Svip came by again."

"I see," I said. "Why do you ask? Have you noticed anything wrong with him?"

"I'm not sure, sir, but I did think he was starting to look a bit grey. It's nothing like it was that time before. He's got as much energy as ever. He was running about the Forts like a three-year-old who's just got up from his nap – sir. But I thought I should bring it to your attention. So you know to keep an eye on him."

I looked again at Svip and Faramir, now some distance along the wall. "Yes," I said. "Thank you. You did well to tell me."

Holgar hesitated, then he went on impulsively, "Do you know, sir, whether Svip needs river water to sleep in, or just any water?"

"I don't know," I had to say again. I scowled in thought. "It might be any water. Back in the barn, I think he just said it was the first time he'd slept out of water." Gazing at my brother and the water creature, apparently deep in conversation, I said, "I should be able to find out. If my brother's pestering him with questions, I should be able to squeeze in one about his sleeping habits." I thought a moment more, then decided, "On the off chance, Holgar, find a washtub; have it filled with water and brought to the tower chamber. I'll see if I can't sweet-talk Svip into having a nap."

"Yes, My Lord," said Holgar, grinning as he saluted.

The young Ranger made for the stairs, and I hurried after Faramir and Svip. Both of them smiled and nodded at me as I caught up with them, then they went back to their discussion.

"What is the building material of your house, then?" inquired Faramir.

"Oh, it's not built," said Svip. "It grows. It's a plant."

"A plant? Really?" Faramir asked, and I exclaimed as well, "Really?"

"Yes, it grows all along the river bottom, but much smaller. The pods are usually just a few inches long. It only starts growing to the sort of size one could live in, when one of us is already living nearby. It's our piss, you see. There's something in it that makes the House Plants grow bigger. That's why it's the worst possible challenge to piss in someone else's territory – it's like telling them you're going to start a house of your own there. The longer you live in one place, the bigger the plant gets, and it keeps growing more pods – that's how you get the different rooms, each one of them's a pod."

"Good heavens," murmured Faramir. "That's remarkable!" He glanced over at me, and smiled as he saw me striving not to look flummoxed at the news that I had lived several days within a waterplant. Not to mention said plant's particular choice of fertilizer.

Faramir continued his research. "Where do you live until the plant has grown large enough?"

"Any kind of shelter where you've got access to the water, but there's air to breathe, too. A cave, if there's one in your territory, or else you can dig a burrow in the riverbank, or build a hut out of sticks and logs, or whatever's to hand. It doesn't matter, so long as it's got water and air."

"What about inside the plants?" Faramir asked. "How do you keep air in them when they're under the water? If you're able to go in and out of the house, why isn't the air inside eventually lost?"

Svip tilted his head to one side, looking up ponderingly at Faramir. "I don't know," he said. "I never thought of that; it's just the way it is. Maybe the plants make the air themselves? Or it's something to do with us living inside; maybe somehow we and the plants make the air together? But I don't know why it doesn't leak out into the water."

"Mithrandir may know," said Faramir. "We can ask him when we get to the City."

"Who's Mithrandir?" Svip asked.

My brother glanced at me questioningly, surprised I suppose that I'd not told Svip of the Wizard. I shrugged, and Faramir turned back to Svip.

"He's one of the Istari – the Wizards. I doubt anyone but he and the other Wizards know how old he is, but he is very old and wise, and I don't think I've ever asked him a question for which he couldn't tell me at least part of an answer. If anyone's likely to know how your House Plants work, Mithrandir will."

Svip nodded, and for a moment we walked onward without speaking, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Then Faramir asked Svip about the language of his people, and the conversation was on once more.

Svip revealed that his people indeed had their own tongue, which he had learned from his mother. But he hadn't used it much since leaving her house, and he thought it likely that for most of his people, the females used it more than the males – since the females would teach the language to their offspring and speak it with them for several years, while the males only had to use it briefly when they met up with a female to mate.

Svip told us that he had learned the Common Tongue from listening to Elves and Men when he was travelling at the time of the Old Wars, before he had his own house. He didn't know for sure, not having met many of his own kind, but he thought most of them probably learned the Common Tongue, since they'd need it to converse with anyone they lured into the water. And the one time he'd encountered another male of his people – a memory that caused Svip to shudder – their brief confrontation had taken place in the common speech.

Faramir asked to hear some words of Svip's language, and for the next few minutes the water creature obliged, speaking words and phrases which Faramir carefully repeated. It sounded a bit like the Dwarven tongue, Faramir suggested, although he could not have proved it by me. I thought I had heard Gimli mutter a few Dwarvish epithets in the months of our journey together, but I couldn't recall the sound of it except that I'd thought it sounded like Gimli was calling swine at the same time as clearing his throat.

My attention wandered during the language lesson. I glanced to my right into the murk, but there was nothing to see beyond the wall except the specks of light from our torches.

Many of our Men lining the wall turned to salute or bow as we passed. I saw several smiles of wonder and amusement at the sight of our little procession, Svip and Faramir in their identical poses talking in water creature speech, and me trailing a few paces behind.

In the faces of the Men, including those who smiled, I saw exhaustion and strain, weighing down on them as we waited in the hellish dusk.

I looked left, to south and westward. Though I knew full well what I would see – or rather, what I would not see – I still could not hold back a surge of disappointment.

My sight did not even extend to the far wall of the Forts. I could pick out the torches along the wall, but beyond those torches in the dark I saw nothing of the land for which we fought.

Nothing of the Pelennor, its fields and orchards dotted with red-roofed farmsteads. Nothing of the huge, sprawling inns along the road, some now converted to farming as the volume of travel decreased, but most still welcoming the traveller with good hay for his horse, a seat in the shade where he could put up his feet, and a foaming mug of ale.

And beyond them, nothing of Minas Tirith.

Always before, the Men who stood on Rammas Echor could look back and see it: houses that gleamed pure white in the sun, the Tower of Ecthelion piercing the sky like a spear of silver and pearl, our banners catching the sunlight as the breezes bore them aloft.

It seemed cruelly wrong not to see any hint of it, not even of the purple shadows and snow-capped crest of Mount Mindolluin, looming over Minas Tirith as a guardian giant with the City held safe in its arms.

And yet if we could not see the White City, neither could our foes. They could not yet profane it with their gaze, no matter how their master turned his foul, lidless eye upon us.

Thoughts of doom, I reminded myself sternly, would get us nowhere. They would kill no Orcs, would cause the Dark Lord not a twinge of discomfort, and were not likely to bring the sunlight back, either.

I turned my mind back to Svip and my brother.

For this moment, at least, Faramir seemed to have banished his own grim thoughts. His face bore the same look of delight as when he was a child, when he would run from the library to share with me the wondrous new facts he'd discovered.

As I made the conscious effort to listen to them again, Faramir was asking Svip, "Why do you suppose the language exists, if it's used so infrequently? Was it used more often in former times?"

Svip gazed down at his feet for a few moments as we walked, then he nodded. "I think it must have been. I think maybe we used to live in groups, a long time ago. I don't know why that would have changed. But my mother told me stories about a time when our people lived in villages. And they weren't always trying to kill each other, either. I used to think she'd made them up. I couldn't believe people would ever live together. But maybe it was true, after all. Maybe the language comes from when we used to live together, and we only started having individual territories later."

Faramir nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. Yes, that would make sense. This really is wonderful!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Listen, Svip, would you allow me to write about you? You and your people? I don't think we have any writings on your kind; at least I've never run across any. Perhaps the Elves have writings that discuss your people, but I'm almost certain there aren't any in the Stewards' Library. And even if there are such writings, it would be good to have a modern work to compare with the old ones, to see what they might reveal about how your people have changed. What do you think? Would it be all right?"

Svip was silent for several moments, again staring down at the walkway and his feet. "I think it would," he said at last, hesitatingly. "As long as you didn't mention any of the actual locations where anybody lives. I mean, of course you could say we live in the River. But if you wrote about the actual places, people might try to find us and – and the others wouldn't like that. And if they found out I'd told you, they might come after me."

"Of course," Faramir said sombrely. "It was only a thought, Svip. I don't have to write it at all if you think it would anger your people –"

"No! No, you can write it." Svip looked up at Faramir, with a bashful sort of grin. "Do you think Elves and Wizards would like to read about us?"

"I know they would," Faramir said. He chuckled quietly. "In fact they're likely the only ones who would read it, except for a few eccentric types like me. You wouldn't need to worry about all and sundry reading it, Svip; I'm usually the only Man to visit the library from one month to the next."

"I would read it," I said.

Faramir and Svip both turned and smiled at me. As they did so, another wave of cold swept over me. I shook with a shudder so massive that I had to stop walking to recover myself.

"Boromir!" Faramir exclaimed, grabbing my arm to steady me. Svip, meanwhile, was watching me with narrowed eyes. He asked sharply, "How long has it been since you slept?"

This, at least, gave me the opportunity for which I'd been waiting. I had not wanted to ask him earlier and interrupt their linguistic discussion. But now that I really looked at Svip, I thought that Holgar had been right. Svip was looking paler than he ought to. Even in the dim torchlight, I could see that.

"Just what I was going to ask you," I said. I went on in a challenging tone, "I slept on the ship. You're looking pretty grey, you know. When did you sleep last?"

"On the ship," he answered, but he glanced away from me as he said it.

I did not confront him with any details from Holgar's report, but only said, "I've been meaning to ask. Do you need to sleep in water from the River? Or is any water good enough?"

"Any water," said Svip. "It's not like with you. You need the River water because that's what I used to bring you back. It doesn't matter with me, as long as it's water."

"Good," said I. "Then there's nothing to stop you having a nap. We've a washtub in our quarters that ought to do nicely."

Svip looked at me rebelliously. Finally he said, "I'll have a nap if you will."

I sighed and rolled my eyes. Faramir said, "I think he's got you trapped."

I was pretty certain that what I needed was not sleep, it was a trip to the blasted River. But I supposed it didn't matter if I gave in to Svip's ultimatum, so long as the enemy was not turning up yet.

The defences were ready. It would not make them any more ready to have both Faramir and me pacing up and down the wall all day.

At least it looked like I would get Svip to nap, without having to tie him up and hold him down in the tub.

Come to think of it, I didn't have to stop with Svip, either.

"Don't think you're getting out of this, little brother," I said. "If we've got to have naptime, so do you."

_Like old times_, I thought, wondering if Faramir saw the funny side of this. He always did hate being ordered to nap, ever since he was old enough to walk. His nurse and I regularly went through complicated negotiations, usually involving letting him stay up an extra half hour at night reading his latest book, before we ever managed to wheedle him into napping.

Faramir did not look amused. "I'm fine, really," he said.

"So am I," I told him stubbornly.

My brother glared at me, then he gave a quiet groan. "All right. You two get some sleep; then when you're up, I'll take a turn. If the enemy hasn't appeared yet."

"Fine," I said. "Come get us after two hours, all right?"

"Right."

When we reached the tower chamber, we found that Holgar had accomplished his mission. A shiny brass washtub had been placed between the fireplace and one of the beds, three-quarters filled with water.

Svip gave a squeak of happiness at the sight and scampered over to the tub, then he stopped and turned to look at me suspiciously. "You are going to sleep too, aren't you?" he asked. "You're not just going to wait till I fall asleep and then sneak out again?"

"I'm not sneaking anywhere," I said. I grabbed up the pillow off the bed farther from the washtub and tossed it to Svip, who caught it easily. "I am going to sleep, Svip. I promise."

He nodded and jumped into the tub, sending water splashing on the floor. The sound of it made me notice how very thirsty I was. While Svip was arranging his pillow against the edge of the tub, I paused for a sip from my canteen. I cursed myself for a fool for not refilling it with River water before we left Anduin's shore. The canteen was yet perhaps a third full, but if I'd had any brain I would have filled it while I had the chance. The Causeway Forts are supplied by wells, and no irrigation pipes pass through the wall from the River here, as they do at other points along Rammas Echor.

It might be a long time before I got to any River water, considering that I'd probably have to make a foray through enemy lines to reach it.

I would just have to drink sparingly of what I had. The swallow I had taken was helping, I thought. At least I was not shivering, though I still felt a damnable chill in my bones.

As I lay down in the bed beside Svip's tub, his voice came again, "You'll sleep? You really do promise?"

"Yes, Svip, I promise," I sighed. "Sleep well."

Admittedly, I harboured the same suspicions about Svip as he did about me. I did not let sleep claim me until I heard Svip's small, wheezing snores. He could, of course, have been faking, but I did not follow my suspicion through that far.

I wandered into sleep, the sound I heard changing from snores into sobs.

I could not tell who was crying.

I was in a cold, grey room, that had never warmed to the welcome of a friendly hearth or to voices lifted in laughter or in song. I looked about me at the tall arches of white stone, the faint sunlight that drifted from tiny windows high above and floated down through ghostly armies of dust.

I knew well where I was. Many times before, my steps had brought me here, to the Houses of the Dead. I had stood here alone in the House of the Stewards as the air hung heavy with silence. I had knelt here by the biers of lost ones that I loved, while the cold air, as now, was rent apart with sobs.

Faramir and I used to play here, to race over the echoing cobbles of the Silent Street and play hide and seek amid the pale statues and dark pillared recesses of the Tombs. There were none here to chide us, none save the quiet servants who tended the Mansions of the Dead and who dared not raise their voices or their hands to scold the Lord Steward's sons.

We stopped playing in the shadows of Rath Dínen when our mother was brought here, to sleep in cold stone and silence.

I wondered who was crying. I knew I was in the House of the Stewards, for I saw the white banners of our family hanging aloft from the distant arches, wreathed about in falling dust. It seemed that I was not standing, but rather floating above with the dust and the banners, gazing down upon the still forms of my ancestors as they slumbered on their beds of stone.

By one of the biers I now noticed two figures kneeling, one a Man and one a small green creature that could only be Svip. It was the Man, I thought, whose sobs I heard. I realised with surprise that Svip was clad in the black and silver livery of the Citadel. But my wondering how that had come to be, took second place in my mind to the question of who the Man kneeling beside Svip might be. And whose might be the silent figure that lay upon the bier where they mourned.

As I watched, Svip timidly reached out his hand and clasped it around the hand of the Man beside him. I thought that I ought to recognise the Man. He had black hair, and clothing that I knew I recognised. But his head was bowed, and try though I might, I could not seem to get any closer, to see his face clearly through the curtain of light and dust.

I should recognise him. Everything about him was familiar to me. But I could not be certain if the Man who sobbed was my brother, or myself.

I woke to my brother's hand on my shoulder, and his quiet words, "Boromir. It's been two hours."

I sat up. "No sign of the enemy yet?" I asked.

"No. Nothing."

I glanced over at Svip in his washtub, wondering how angry he would be with me if I let him sleep through another shift. It turned out that I needn't have bothered wondering, for as Faramir and I watched, his head suddenly popped up from his sodden pillow and he leaped dripping out of the tub.

"Ready?" Svip asked cheerfully. "Are we going back to the wall?"

"Yes," I told him. "We're going back."

I stood and said to Faramir, "Your turn, then. Don't try sneaking out of here as soon as our backs are turned."

He frowned, but nodded. "Call me the instant there's any move from the enemy."

"I will."

The dripping Svip hurried over to me as Faramir lay down in his usual position, curled up on his left side with both hands underneath the pillow. "All right, Boromir," Faramir said irritably, without turning to look at me, "you don't have to stand there watching until I fall asleep."

"Right," I called back as we turned to leave. "I'll see you in two hours."

We walked outside into the sickly dusk. I returned the nods and greetings of the soldiers nearby, then stepped to the parapet to scowl once more at the light of our torches glowing in black emptiness.

"Boromir?" Svip asked in a hesitant tone.

I turned my back on the taunting dark. "Yes? What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter. Only, well – when the fighting comes again, I don't want to have to do nothing."

"What do you mean? You've been doing a great deal. You pulverised a lot of Orcs at Osgiliath."

He nodded. "I know, but at the island I couldn't do anything. The wall here's wider than the one there, so I can turn into a horse here, but that doesn't do any good until they're close enough to kick and bite. Don't you have any bows that are small enough for me to use?"

I thought about it. I couldn't think of any stash of children's weaponry that would be at the Causeway Forts, but there was another possibility.

"You could probably handle a crossbow," I said. "Their range isn't as great as the longbows', but it's a greater range than biting and kicking. They take a bit of getting used to, but they do have pulleys that help draw back the bowstring, so you don't have to be strong enough to draw it by yourself. And they're a lot smaller than the longbows; I think you're probably big enough to use them."

"I'd like to learn how," Svip said eagerly.

"So you shall," I said, suddenly feeling purposeful. It was a relief to be able to think of something practical, instead of just chills and shadows and dreams of foreboding.

I called Lieutenant Siriondil over to us. "Lieutenant, select two Men who are particularly skilled with the crossbow. They must be good at passing on their skills, as well; they'll be instructing Svip in the crossbow's use. Have a target set up here on the tower."

Svip's crossbow lesson proved a good diversion. Indeed, the diversion was nearly too good, and several times I noticed officers censuring their Men to keep focus on the enemy's possible approach, rather than on Svip's archery. But still there were murmurs of applause, and I saw a few coins exchanged as those who had bet in Svip's favour collected on their wagers.

"He's pretty good at it, My Lord," Lieutenant Siriondil observed once, when Svip's crossbow bolt skewered the target's centre.

I nodded. "It doesn't surprise me, I suppose. He's got a good eye. And his aim can be truly frightening."

I had been keeping close track of the nearest hour candle, that burned behind a pane of glass in its niche in the tower wall. The fortress's bell had pealed once for the passing of an hour, and was about to do so again. The candle had burned nearly to the second hour-marking since I had started watching it.

Before I could head inside to waken Faramir, he beat me to it. My brother stepped out from the tower door, pulled his cloak tighter about him and walked over to me.

The sleep, if indeed he had got any, appeared to have done no good at all. He looked exhausted. The shadows beneath his eyes seemed darker, and the rest of his face seemed even paler than before.

He followed the gaze of the Men watching Svip's training, and asked, "Is this the first time he's used a crossbow?"

"It was, two hours ago," I said. "Looks like he's got it down. Now we just have to find something for him to stand on so he can reach the embrasures."

Faramir smiled, which did nothing to relieve the worn pallor of his face.

"You're right on time," I observed, as the hour bell rang out. "Did you get any sleep?"

"Some," he said.

"Dreams?"

He shook his head dismissively. I very well knew what that usually meant. There had been dreams, and they had been bad. "Nothing much," he answered. "Could have been a lot worse."

"You're sure?" I prodded. "You look awful."

Faramir raised his head proudly, giving me a challenging stare. He said, "I'm sure I don't look any more awful than you do."

I snorted. "That's debatable."

Concern rapidly succeeded the challenge in Faramir's gaze. He asked me, "Boromir, how close do you need to stay to the River?"

I shrugged and turned to watch as Svip and his trainers engaged in a new archery contest, now firing ten paces farther back from where they'd been firing before. "I don't really know," I said. "It seemed it was four or five miles before I started noticing anything wrong, when I tried to leave the River before. It got worse the farther I went, until ten miles or so when I was keeling over."

"We're four miles from the River now," Faramir said.

"I know."

"Is it getting worse?" he persisted.

I shrugged again. "Not really. Maybe slightly. It isn't a problem."

"Isn't it?"

I sighed. "I'm a bit cold. That's all. It's nothing to worry about."

"When will you worry about it?"

I scowled at him. "When it gets too bad for me to fight. Then I'll worry."

"When do you plan on deciding it's too bad? When you pass out while some Orc is running at you with an axe?"

"For heaven's sake," I groaned. "When it gets too bad, I'll leave. I'll follow the wall around to the Harlond, have a nice swim and fill up some canteens, and head to the City from there."

"You could do that now," he pointed out. "While you're still conscious, and we don't need to waste good fighting Men on carrying you. And before the Harlond's over-run and you have to take your swim in the midst of an enemy army."

My fists clenched. I had to consciously will myself to unclench them again. "I'm not leaving until I have to, Faramir," I hissed. "You know that."

He argued, "I know that our father is mourning you for dead. And that you might do a greater service to Gondor by going to him and giving him something for which to live, than by waiting here to fight when you're in no condition to do so."

"How the hell do you know what condition I'm in?"

The anger abruptly left my brother's face. He clutched my arm, gazing at me in desperation. "Boromir, listen to me. You just came back to us. Do you think we want to lose you again?"

Of a sudden I felt my eyes sting with tears. I swallowed. "You won't lose me," I said gruffly.

"Will we not?" he demanded, a bitter gleam in his eyes. "You know you can't promise that. Any more than you could promise it the last time."

"_You_ listen, brother," I ordered, closing my hand over his. "You know I cannot desert our Men while they're waiting for the Nameless One to strike. I can't do it any more than you could."

"If it would help them more to leave than to remain, I could do it. So must you."

I bit my lip, looking away from his desperate gaze. "I will," I said. "But not yet."

Faramir suddenly yanked his hand away from my arm. "Damn it, Boromir!" he hissed, still keeping his voice low enough not to carry to our Men along the wall. "Do you believe Father and I are made of stone? Losing you this time nearly destroyed us! I am not letting you put us through this again."

I shot back, "I'm not putting you through anything! Nothing that we haven't always known we someday might have to face. You know it as well as I do. It is our duty to fight for Gondor. To lay down our lives if need be. And if that happens, then it's the duty of those who are left to live with that loss."

"Don't lecture me about duty! This isn't about duty, it's about you not being able to put _anything_ before your stupid pride."

"It is not pride!"

Both of our voices were growing louder now. I noticed several of the Men glance over at us and swiftly look away again.

The sight served to thoroughly douse my anger. It would do the morale of our Men no good at all, for their captains to be quarrelling. If our father were here, I thought, he would knock our heads together. And he would be right to do so.

I sighed. "It's not my pride, Faramir," I said. "Not this time. It's the truth. I _know_ that I'm all right now. And I will leave before my condition becomes a threat. I don't know what else I can tell you."

He shook his head sadly, with his melancholy smile. "I want to believe you," he said.

I thought for a moment. Then I said, "Faramir. I vow to you by my Oath of Fealty to Gondor. I will return to the River before my condition endangers my life, or the lives of our Men. Will you believe that?"

Faramir sighed, his gaze slipping away from mine. I grasped his shoulder, struggling to think of anything more I could say that would make him believe me. Then suddenly he turned, looking into the courtyard of the Forts as though he heard something approaching.

An instant later, the trumpet rang forth from the Forts' West Gate, that guards the road from Minas Tirith.

Someone sought admission through the gate. That much was clear, but who, or how many, was impossible to know. After a few moments I heard the gate creak open, but in the dark it was still too far for me to see who might be passing within.

I glanced over at Faramir. "Reinforcements from the City?" I suggested.

He shook his head, still staring toward the unseen gate. "No," he said. "I don't think so."

We waited, and gradually a horseman rode into view, down the main thoroughfare of the fortress out of the dark.

I was not sure if perhaps the torchlight along the road played tricks upon my sight. For while the horse seemed nearly invisible at times, moving like a fog in and out of the light, the rider seemed to give off his own radiance, a pure white that gleamed from his person and cast the darkness aside.

I squinted at the approaching horseman, trying to make sense of what my eyes told me.

He had a white robe, I thought. A white robe that shifted in and out of sight, for as he rode, the darker cloak that he wore shifted to reveal more of his robe, and then fell closed about it once again. It seemed that he had white hair, as well, partly concealed by some large, dark hat. As the rider drew near to the stables, I frowned, wondering if the impression that he had been glowing were indeed merely some trick of the light.

Whatever it had been, it seemed gone now, leaving only an old Man in a white robe and a dark cloak.

Faramir breathed, "Mithrandir."

I nearly swore. But I held the words back, to keep from wiping the delighted smile off my brother's face.

_Wonderful_, I thought. _Just who I do not want to see_.

I told myself I did not believe the superstition held by many of our Men, that the Grey Wanderer only moved amongst us as the harbinger of doom. I ought not to believe it, anyhow, after journeying with him for three months – although, to be certain, that journey indeed had led to my doom. And to his.

I sternly fought back a thrill of dread, at the memory that this rider below us, who now dismounted from his steed and walked with it toward our stables, had returned from the fires of Moria.

_Yes_, I told myself, _and you've returned from the Falls of Rauros_.

I did not believe he was any supernatural messenger of doom. Yet still, the thought that he must have ridden here from Minas Tirith – and from our father – sent whispers of foreboding through me. I could not help fearing that he brought news of some misfortune to our father. Misfortune that, had I gone straight to Minas Tirith, I might have prevented.

Faramir looked over at me, his smile growing apologetic as he remembered that I had little more love for the Wizard than our father did. "I'll go and meet him," Faramir said.

I answered, "I'll come along."

He frowned in surprise, then nodded. "If you want to," he said doubtfully.

I did not want to. But neither did I want to hold back from encountering my fellow voyager from the realms of the dead.

If I waited, it would look as though I feared to meet him.

Which I did.

But I would sooner die again, I thought, than let that fear show.

Svip and his trainers seemed deep in discussion of the crossbow's workings, but nonetheless as Faramir and I started for the stairs, Svip broke free of the conversation and scurried over to us.

"Stay here, Svip," I told him. "There's a messenger from the City with whom Faramir and I must meet. You stay here; go on with your training. You're doing very well."

Svip beamed at the praise. "So you'll let me use the bow, when the fighting starts?"

"Oh, I think we'll let you," I said. "Won't we?" I added, turning to Faramir.

"Decidedly," Faramir agreed. "If you had not volunteered, we would be begging you to."

Our small green crossbowman grinned. "Right," he said, then he turned and raced back over to his tutors.

We hurried down from the wall. I had supposed that I was alone in my misgivings at Mithrandir's arrival, and that Faramir simply looked forward to greeting an old friend. But glancing over at my brother, I saw a troubled frown on his face as we reached the foot of the stairs and hastened between the Forts' two towers.

"Do you think something's happened to Father?" I asked him in an undertone, so none of the soldiers who saluted as we passed would catch the words.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Faramir answered, in the same low tone. "I can't think of what else would bring Mithrandir here now."

"Have you had any visions with Father in them?"

Faramir shook his head. "No. That is – no. I don't think so."

We reached the long, low stables building and hurried into the courtyard between the two rows of stalls.

Voices sounded in one of the stalls ahead of us.

"So, Lord Stormcrow," a Man was asking cheerfully, "have you come to bring us tidings of despair?"

"If I have," spoke a familiar voice that sent a shiver down my spine, "I am arriving behind my time. No, Master ostler," he went on in a tone of quiet laughter, "I come bringing hope to those who will hear it. And perhaps to bring some light in this darkness."

"You've got your work cut out for you then, sir," the ostler observed.

Faramir had quickened his steps and was a few paces ahead of me. "Mithrandir!" he called out, gladness in his voice despite the fear of what this arrival might herald.

"Hail, My Lord," replied the Wizard.

I caught up to my brother and stood beside him.

"My Lords," Mithrandir corrected himself. He solemnly bowed his head, then studied me with eyes that seemed to blaze out from the stall's shadows.

The ostler bowed low and then busied himself with raking the straw on the stall floor and trying to be unobtrusive. The stall's third occupant, a massive grey horse that stood taller than Svip in horse form – and was a more thoroughly convincing horse than Svip, as well – gave a whinny of greeting and shook his mane.

"I am glad to see you, Gandalf," I said. I was sure the words did not sound heartfelt, but at least I managed to say them.

"And I you, Lord Boromir," he answered.

There came to my mind the memory of a horse of which Mithrandir had spoken in Lord Elrond's council, a silver stallion of the Riddermark with which Théoden King had been loathe to see the Wizard depart. Mithrandir had said, I recalled, that a friendship had grown between them, and that this wondrous steed would come at his call.

"This is Shadowfax?" I inquired.

"Shadowfax, chief of the _Mearas_, lords of horses," he said, caressing the grey stallion's mane. "A true and valiant friend."

As Shadowfax bent his head to nuzzle the Grey Wanderer's hand, I wondered suddenly what he would think of Svip, should the two horses encounter each other. And what Svip would think of him.

Mithrandir gave a final pat to the great stallion's nose, then turned his gaze on Faramir and me. "I would speak with you both, My Lords," he said.

Faramir nodded. "We'll go back to the tower."

We left the stable, after a parting injunction from the Wizard that the ostler should treat Shadowfax with the respect that was his due. I thought the order likely un-needed, for from the way the ostler had eyed the _Meara_ since the horse's lineage was mentioned, he was liable to line Shadowfax's stall with cloth of gold, and bring his apples and carrots upon a silken cushion.

I glanced over at Mithrandir as we walked. I could see no mark upon him from his plunge into the fiery pit; no wounds, scars or burn marks. I supposed the fight with the Balrog had been near two months ago by now, yet still I would have thought to see some sign of it. There could have been any number of wounds hidden by his robes, but his gait was as spry as ever. It was hardly the walk of one who had crawled back up after plummeting into that chasm.

I thought how odd it seemed to see him wearing white. Never had I seen him wear anything but grey, except perhaps for a few different-coloured hats, since the day when I was ten years old when I first remembered seeing him appear at our father's court. And though his grey hat and cloak had the look of the old Gandalf, I was almost sure they were not what he had worn when the nine of us journeyed from Rivendell. The staff he carried with him, I thought, was new as well.

_Well, it would be, wouldn't it_? I asked myself. _If he did somehow crawl out of the pit, I imagine he _would_ need some new clothing and gear. _

I nearly laughed as I thought,_ Not everyone goes around for weeks in the same filthy clothes in which they were killed_.

How in blazes had he escaped? Had there been some ledge just below the bridge? A ladder left behind by the Dwarven miners? A convenient underground lake that broke his fall and through which he swam out of danger?

I shook my head in disbelief. He could not have escaped.

For a moment the memories rushed over me. The sudden unearthly silence as the echoes of my horn's call died before they should have, and in fiery shadow the Balrog advanced upon us. The scorching heat that swept at us when Aragorn and I turned to face the foe, and saw Mithrandir stand upon the bridge, outlined against the flames. The blank darkness as the Balrog and the Wizard vanished, and the cracking roar as of the end of the world, as the last shards of the bridge hurtled downward after Mithrandir and his enemy.

I looked at him again, and shuddered. The thought came to me that the impression I'd had as Mithrandir rode through the Forts had not been illusion, after all. Even now, as we walked side by side, for all the world as though the Wizard were an ordinary Man, there were yet moments when I thought that he somehow gave off his own light. It did not seem to be there when I looked straight at him and tried to see it, yet I was sure of it, all the same.

As we walked, Faramir asked, "Should we have anything sent for? Have you eaten?"

"A cup of wine will be welcome. As for food, I have been well provided. The Lord Denethor does not permit his guests to starve, although Master Peregrin might tell you differently."

I wondered if he were testing me by mentioning Pippin's name. I could not believe that Mithrandir would accept my return without some doubts, without at least considering the likelihood that I was some trick of the Enemy.

"Is Pippin all right?" I asked him.

"A little frightened. And decidedly out of his depth. But he is learning. Perhaps he may not be out of his depth by the end of this adventure." Mithrandir chuckled quietly. "Though he will probably still be hungry."

I went on, "And Merry and the others? You have seen them again, since Moria?"

He kept silent so long before answering, I thought he would not reply at all. "I have," he said at last, and he followed the words with a deep, melancholy sigh. "They were well, when I left them."

_Bloody Wizard_, I thought. _Can he not tell me any more detail than that_?

We reached the door to the North Tower, and Faramir sent one of the guards to fetch Mithrandir's wine. As we climbed the tower stairs, I asked, "The halflings were not harmed in their captivity?"

I heard a smile in his voice as he replied, "Nothing from which two young Hobbits cannot swiftly recover."

"And –" I hesitated, then plunged into the next question. "What of Frodo, and Sam? How were they parted from the rest of the company?"

I heard a sharp intake of breath from my brother. I stopped on the stairs to look at him, and saw him watching me with a grimly worried expression, as if he feared the answer were one I would not wish to hear.

I turned back to meet the Wizard's gaze, that seemed attempting to read my soul. "Frodo set out for Mordor alone, from Amon Hen. Master Samwise followed him."

_From Amon Hen_, my thoughts repeated. I had little doubt that Mithrandir knew as well as I did, in what manner Frodo chose to set out alone.

He had fled in horror and despair, from the attack of one who should have stood his protector and his friend.

I turned and climbed the stairs. Faramir and the Wizard followed, Mithrandir continuing almost as if speaking to himself, "I did not know of Frodo's choice until Aragorn and the others told me. And what little I know of their journeying comes from your brother's meeting with them." He sighed again, then went on, almost too quiet to be heard, "They walk a dark road. Darker than any the rest of us shall face, even in this gloom of our Enemy. Yet they carry with them a light that does not fail. If they remember to use it."

_One thing has not changed_, I thought. _The Grey Pilgrim_ _still speaks in riddles_.

Although in this case, I was not sure that I wanted him to speak any more clearly. I had no wish to discuss with him Frodo and Sam's journey.

Not now, at least. Not while my brother was there to hear.

We walked through the guardroom and into our quarters. As soon as the door had shut behind us, Faramir and I spoke in the same instant.

"Is Father all right?" Faramir questioned, even as I was asking, "Has something happened to our father?"

The Wizard looked from me to Faramir, and back again. "Your father is hale in body," he told us finally. "As for the strength of his mind, that I do not know. I doubt if he knows, himself. Yesterday, Lord Boromir, he received your letter from Cair Andros."

"Thank the Valar!" I exclaimed. "Then the messenger made it through?"

"His journey was spent slipping between Orc scouting parties, and the last six leagues he completed on foot, after sending his horse to lead the enemy off his trail. He reached Minas Tirith yesterday morn, three hours perhaps after Lord Faramir set forth."

"Then Father's all right, surely," Faramir put in eagerly. "If he knows that Boromir's alive –"

Mithrandir's eyes were troubled, as dark as the blackened sky. "The Lord Steward does not know what to believe. One moment his strength and hope are with him, as he believes in his heir's return. The next moment he doubts again, and he believes the letter a lie. His fears and his hopes stab him each in turn."

Faramir and I looked at each other, the desperate concern on Faramir's face mirroring that which I felt myself.

"You've got to go to him, Boromir," my brother said urgently. "You have to."

My gaze dropped from his. I stared at my right hand, as I forced the fingers to unclench out of a fist. "He would not wish me to desert my post," I said, even as a sickening dread crept through me. The knowledge that I had stood by my post would be little comfort, if grief came to our father while I lingered no more than five miles away from him.

"Forgive me, My Lords," Mithrandir interposed quietly. "I must ask. Will you tell me, Lord Boromir, how it is that you have returned?"

I looked up again with a sudden rush of anger. The question was a reasonable one, I knew; everyone else was asking it. But it angered me, hearing it from him, whose own return must be a tale as scarcely believable as mine. It was on the tip of my tongue to snap out that I'd tell him mine if he'd tell me his.

Before I could say anything, Faramir spoke up, stepping between the Wizard and me. "A river creature by the name of Svip brought him back," Faramir said, "using a spell involving Anduin's water and mud, and a plant that Svip calls silverweed. His people live in territories along the River's bottom, each alone. Svip has journeyed here. Loneliness led him to bring Boromir back, but friendship has brought him here to fight at Boromir's side."

My brother's defensive tone brought a smile to my lips and gratitude to my heart. He spoke as though ordering Mithrandir not to dare suggesting that my return was a trick of the darkness.

The Wizard raised one bushy white eyebrow. He asked, "Can you tell me more of what manner of creature Svip may be?"

"He hasn't told us what his people call themselves," I stepped in. "He's a shapeshifter. In his normal form he's three and a half feet tall, and green. The only other form I've seen him take is that of a grey horse. I don't know if he can take any other."

Mithrandir smiled in wonder. "The Duinhirrim," he murmured. "Long indeed is it since I have heard of their people. Longer still since I have met one. I was not sure if any yet dwelt in Middle Earth. I would be glad of the chance to speak with Svip, Lord Boromir."

I tried to fight off a frown that was settling on my face. I did not believe for a moment that he wanted to speak with Svip for the sake of renewing old acquaintances with his people. More like, to question him on whether I was constantly ranting that I had to get my hands on a certain Ring.

I had no fear of what Svip might say in answer to his questions. But there was quite a bit that I hoped Mithrandir would not say to Svip about me.

At that moment, I agreed entirely with everything my father had ever told me about Mithrandir. The Wizard brought our family nothing but trouble, and I heartily wished him out of my sight and far outside of our realm.

I said, trying without much success to stop my dislike from sounding in my voice, "Svip's always happy to talk with anyone. He's outside, on the wall. Give me a moment first to tell him who you are."

I found Svip and his two tutors taking a breather. The three of them were sat against the parapet, playing a game of dice. As I approached, the soldiers scrambled to their feet. Svip hopped up an instant later.

"Is everything all right at the City?" he asked.

"Thus far, it seems. Stand at ease, gentlemen."

The two crossbowmen bowed. "Your names?" I inquired of them.

"Ranulf Son of Tostig, My Lord," said one, a pudgy fellow with an accent that placed him as hailing from south along the River Ringló, and "Narmacil Son of Pelendur, sir," answered the other, a grizzled veteran whose speech suggested he'd been born within sight of the White Tower.

"My thanks to you both," I said. "What are your thoughts on Svip's progress?"

"He'll do us all proud, Sir," said Narmacil. "He'll skewer his share of Orc devils before this day is through."

"Thank you," said Svip, shaking hands with both of them. I sent Ranulf and Narmacil back to their companies, then I turned to Svip, momentarily at a loss on how to word what I wanted to say to him.

Svip spoke before I figured it out. "What's the matter?" he asked me.

I said, "The messenger from the City is Mithrandir, the Wizard of whom we told you. He's asked to speak with you, if you are willing to speak with him."

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Svip asked. He looked up at me in puzzlement, and I thought that perhaps he had never encountered the concept of not wanting to talk with someone.

Even if he had not, it did not take him long to understand that I might not want him speaking with the Wizard.

"You don't like him," Svip said suddenly, frowning in concern.

I shrugged. "Sometimes I like him well enough. And sometimes I want to tell him to –" I stopped short. The ending of that sentence that jumped to my mind was "to jump off a bridge," but it would hardly be in the best taste to say that. Besides, I thought, it was clear enough that when Wizards jump or fall off of bridges, they just pop right back up again.

"My brother likes him," I went on. "Faramir thinks he's the most wonderful thing on two legs. And our father can't stand him. He thinks Mithrandir's a trouble-maker plotting his own advancement and the downfall of our family."

"Why does he think that?" Svip asked. "Is it true?"

"Who knows?" I sighed. "Our father's in the habit of thinking the worst of everyone. And often he turns out to be right. The difficulty's in figuring out when he's right and when he isn't."

Svip nodded slowly, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Listen, Svip," I said, "the thing about Wizards is – they are very wise, they know things that most people don't, about – about the pattern of events, and what the future may hold. And they often don't tell other people what they know, because they think no one else is wise enough to handle their knowledge. I don't say that Mithrandir wants to hurt any of us, but the way he uses people, to fulfil some pattern he can see that the rest of us can't – without thinking that it matters if those people understand what he's doing or why – "

I shook my head in frustration, losing my way as I fought to put my thoughts into words. "All that I am saying is, he will probably be asking you a lot of questions. Just remember, you do not have to tell him anything you don't want to. Perhaps there won't be anything you don't want to tell him. That's all right, if there isn't. But if there is anything you've got doubts about, anything you'd rather he didn't know – then you don't have to tell him. And he doesn't have any right to make you think that you have to. That's all."

Svip nodded again. "I won't tell him anything I don't want to," he said. He looked at me searchingly and asked, "Is there anything you don't want me to tell him?"

I gave another sigh. "No, Svip. Tell him the truth. So long as it feels right to you."

My time for warnings was nearly out, which was likely just as well. Mithrandir and Faramir were walking toward us, in solemn conversation.

Svip looked at them, then glanced up at me anxiously.

"It will be all right," I said. "I'm sorry to have worried you."

"No. It's fine. I'm not worried."

Faramir and the Wizard stopped beside us, and Mithrandir gravely bowed.

"Svip," I said, "this is Lord Mithrandir of the Istari. Mithrandir, I present to you Svip of Anduin."

"Hello," said Svip.

Mithrandir answered with some incomprehensible phrase that clearly meant a great deal to Svip. The water creature stared at him for a moment, then spoke rapidly in his own tongue. When Svip finally paused, the Grey Wanderer replied in the same language.

"I'll check in with Lieutenant Siriondil," I told Faramir, and I walked away as briskly as I could without looking as though I was running away from them.

For the next half hour or so, I kept my distance. Their speech must have switched to the Common Tongue, for from time to time when I looked over at the three of them I saw Faramir joining in the conversation. Faramir leaned against the parapet, Mithrandir leaned upon his staff, and Svip must have asked one or the other of them to boost him up to an embrasure, where he sat swinging his feet.

I ordered myself not to look at them too often. Every time I did look, it sent a sour, jealous feeling coursing through me.

I sneered at myself for the weakness that led to this feeling. All the same, it made me angry to see them, to see my brother and Svip chat cheerfully with Mithrandir, when it was all I could do to exchange a few words without wanting to punch him in his wise, wizardly nose.

The three eventually strolled toward me, where I stood leaning against an embrasure and thinking bitter thoughts. Svip ran ahead of the others. He reached up and tentatively took my hand, looking at me as though fearing I would blame him for speaking with the Wizard.

I smiled at him, and he smiled back, though he still was not certain, I think, whether I were about to explode.

"Faramir and I are going to the House of Healing," Svip said, "to see if anything's changed there."

I nodded, trying not to let it show on my face as my heart sank.

Faramir shepherding Svip away with him had one meaning, I was certain: it was now my turn to endure a one-on-one interview with the Grey Pilgrim.

As Svip and Faramir headed for the stairs – both of them casting me further apologetic smiles – Mithrandir walked over to me and took up position looking out at the darkness through the next embrasure along from mine.

_Well_, I thought, _this should be fun_.

The Wizard remarked, not looking at me, "You choose your friends well, Lord Boromir."

On that, at least, we could agree.

"Svip chose me," I pointed out. "I'm part of his collection. But, yes. I am grateful for his friendship."

I stared at the black nothing beyond our torches.

Mithrandir did not answer, and I struggled not to sigh audibly. If we had to speak to each other, I wished we could get it over with.

I supposed that he knew all about my confrontation with Frodo. Even if he had not known before, doubtless Faramir would have spoken of it with him, after encountering Frodo and Sam in Ithilien.

I grimaced as I thought of it. There had never been much love lost between Lord Mithrandir and me, but I hated to think what his view of me must be, now that I had assaulted his young Hobbit protégé.

I wondered, only partly in jest, if he were more likely to fry me with a lightning bolt or turn me into a newt.

_Neither_, I told myself. Mithrandir would not want to bring sorrow to my brother. Although if I asked him, Faramir might well tell me that I'd be less annoying as a pet newt than I am as a Man.

As deeply as I dreaded speaking of my departure from the Fellowship, even less was I willing to wait until Mithrandir spoke of it first, like a guilty child awaiting punishment from his schoolmaster.

I asked him, "You know how I parted from Frodo?"

The Wizard looked toward me and nodded. His eyes were dark as stormclouds and his face unreadable as he spoke quietly, "I learned from our comrades, when I met them in Fangorn Forest."

There was a great deal of information in that brief statement, all of it surprising to me. _Which comrades_? I wondered. What were they doing in Fangorn? And how had these comrades known of my attack on the Ringbearer?

I did not think he was speaking of Frodo and Sam; they could never have reached Henneth Annûn five days ago if they'd strayed as far west as Fangorn. But neither did I think our other companions had witnessed the assault, even from a distance. If they had, would they not have come running to Frodo's aid?

I thought sourly that perhaps Aragorn's kingly intuition had told him of my fall. Though if so, his intuition had come too late to do Frodo or me any good.

The words stuck in my throat. Nonetheless I forced out the question, "How did our comrades learn of it? They did not see it, or they would have come to Frodo's defence."

Mithrandir studied me before answering. I thought that I saw understanding and pity in his gaze. Neither of those did I have any wish to see.

He said at last, "Aragorn says you spoke of it to him, in the moments before your death."

Sickening cold seemed to hit in the pit of my stomach, and spread throughout all of my frame.

I heard myself whisper, "I did? Oh."

_Of all the Fellowship_, I thought, _why did it have to be Aragorn_?

Nausea welled in me as I thought of the anguished shame that must have driven me to confess my failure to Aragorn. The shame and the despair, in the certain knowledge that I had only those few seconds to set any of my affairs in order, to put anything to rights.

I wondered what I had said to him. At the same time, I was certain that I did not want to know.

I started in surprise as the Wizard placed a hand on my shoulder.

I wanted to break away from his grasp. But I forced myself to keep still, and listen to his words.

"Your comrades hold no hatred for you, Boromir," he said. "Nor should you hold any for yourself. You died fighting for your friends. Any debt that you owed was paid."

"That's very decent of all of you," I sneered. I pulled away from him and leaned over the embrasure, staring out into the dark. "It's an easy task to forgive a Man's failures, once he is dead."

I do not think the Wizard made any move to step closer to me, but his quiet voice sounded to my ears as though he still stood at my side. He observed, "And it is no easy task for a Man to forgive himself. You are not dying now, Son of Denethor," he went on persuasively. "And well I know that you hold me no dearer in your heart than your father does, or than you hold the Lord Aragorn. Nevertheless I ask of you: will you speak of it now to me?"

I turned to face him. I could not read in his face what he expected of me. Did he expect me to plead for forgiveness? _No_, I thought, _probably not. He should know me better than that_.

I compelled myself to meet the Wizard's gaze. "My intentions were worthy," I said. "But my actions were dishonourable."

He contemplated me in silence. Then he asked, "Then tell me, My Lord. What are your intentions now?"

"My intentions regarding Isildur's Bane? I have none. I cannot take it, even if I wished to do so. Not unless it were to wander back within ten miles of Anduin."

Mithrandir's eyes grew distant for a moment. I wondered if perhaps his thoughts were seeking the Ring, or for Frodo – assuring himself that both were far from us, and beyond my grasp.

Then to my disbelief, he smiled faintly. The Wizard pondered aloud, "There are times when intentions and actions both are far from their results. We can take comfort perhaps in the thought that the result was worthy, even if the action was not."

_Wonderful_, I thought. _A vintage wizardly conundrum for me to chew over_. I asked, trying not to let my impatience sound in my voice, "What result?"

His solemn yet kindly glance almost made me want to squirm. It seemed entirely unlike my father's piercing gaze, yet somehow it had the same sort of effect: the impression that he saw and understood every last thought in my mind, and every aspect of my being.

"Had you not attacked Frodo, he might not have chosen to leave the company. And had he not, he might have been seized and brought to Saruman. And his burden with him."

_Oh, fine,_ I thought. _So it's all right, then, that I behaved like a thorough cad, and brutally attacked a comrade I'd sworn to protect_?

My self-disgust must have shown on my face. Mithrandir said in a sombre tone, "You are not alone in feeling the lure of Isildur's Bane, My Lord Boromir. I have heard its call. And I will pass no judgement on others who have heard."

I felt myself smile bitterly. I said, "I fear I have not the same detachment as you have."

He raised one craggy white eyebrow and commented, "The fact that you've not lived the lifetimes of thirty Men may have something to do with that." Unexpectedly he smiled again, as calm and contented a smile as if he were sitting in the Stewards' Library puffing on his pipe and answering Faramir's questions on some incomprehensible treatise of Elven lore. "Do not doubt, Son of Gondor, that sometimes things happen as they are meant to. It may be that your parting with the Fellowship was meant to happen. As your meeting with Svip was meant. And your return to where you are needed most." He added, eyeing me with a trace of concern, "Although Svip and your brother tell me you ought to be four miles closer to the River."

_Not again_, I thought. I said in exasperation, "I promised Faramir I'll leave when my condition gets too dangerous to remain."

Mithrandir nodded. "And Faramir wonders if you'll admit that your condition is too dangerous, before you have fallen over."

I sighed. _Some day_, I thought, _I will convince that little brat that I'm not as stupid as he thinks I am_.

Of course, I supposed I couldn't really complain. If he thought he had to look after me and protect me from myself, it was just about the same as what I thought about him. Only he wanted to protect me from my stubbornness, ambition and pride. Whereas I wanted to protect him from his stubbornness, innocence and pain.

I told the Wizard, "I want to serve my country. It will not serve Gondor if I sacrifice myself to my pride. I will leave when I need to."

The Wizard gazed at me, deep in thought. "I believe you, Lord Boromir," he said at last. "Your brother, I'm afraid, will not believe until he sees it."

I shrugged. "Even the wisest Men can be surprised."

"They can indeed," Mithrandir agreed. "As can Wizards. Every now and then."

I eyed him in suspicion, not yet entirely convinced that he was not about to lecture me on the depths of my evil and my irresponsibility. But no lecture seemed forthcoming. Reluctantly, I smiled.

"I hope you will forgive my curiosity," I said, "since we seem to understand each other for the moment. I have got to ask. How the hell did you escape from that pit, and the Balrog?"

"Do not name him, even here," Mithrandir murmured, his brows drawing together and his gaze darkening with pain. He went on, "I did not escape."

"Ah," I said.

Suddenly I thought that he looked truly old, as he usually did not. Usually he seemed a creature existing by his own rules, outside the strictures of time. Now, for this moment at least, age seemed to have laid its hand upon him, carving upon his face its lines of weariness and sorrow.

"We fought." He spoke quietly, his gaze far from me. "Long did we fight, a fight as would make a song many nights in the singing. We fought, and I threw my enemy down. Darkness took me. Far I wandered, outside thought and time. Then I was sent back, for my task is not complete."

The focus of his eyes returned to me. He smiled, but the smile yet seemed to speak of weariness beyond anything Men could comprehend. "We have both returned from death, Lord Boromir," he said. "It may be that you were sent back as well, that your part in the tale of this Middle Earth is not yet fully played."

I stared at him, feeling as though icy fingers scraped along my spine.

I told myself that my reaction was absurd. But the news that Mithrandir was truly returned from the dead filled me with as much amazement as though the same thing had not also happened to me.

I'd had two weeks and more, to get used to my own return. It seemed natural to me by now – almost. But to hear that another had returned, somehow made my own resurrection frightening and mysterious once more.

Nor was it reassuring to hear Mithrandir speak of being "sent back." The way he had said it left me in no doubt that he remembered being sent, and remembered who had sent him. It sent a whisper of fear through me to think that whoever sent Mithrandir back might also have made the choice that governed my fate.

I was a great deal happier thinking of my return as merely something of this earth, thinking that I was back because Svip had found me in time and decided he'd like to add a Man to his collection. If some greater power had guided Svip's actions and directed my return, I thought that I would rather not know of it.

I swallowed nervously and asked, "You remember it? Being sent back?"

"I remember it," he said. "You do not?"

"No. I don't."

He murmured, "Perhaps it is better so."

I thought that his comment should anger me, for its implication that mere Men could not deal with the knowledge and the memory. But for this once, I was happy to accept such a statement.

I did not know whether I could deal with it. But I knew I was glad that I did not to have to try.

Mithrandir went on, "Not recalling may make it easier, to remember in what world you belong."

I strove to think of anything I could say to him. A timely interruption freed me from that duty.

Svip appeared at the top of the stairs and hastened along the wall toward us. He said, a little out of breath, "Mithrandir? Faramir asks you to join him at the House of Healing. He wants you to have a look at the Men we talked about earlier, the ones falling into this black sleep. More of them have fallen to it, now."

The Wizard nodded briskly. "I will go." He turned back to me, and for a moment he closed his hand over mine, where it rested on the embrasure.

"Thank you for speaking with me, My Lord," he said. I thought that perhaps he smiled as he turned to leave, but I was not sure of it, for in the next instant his face was darkened by the shadows of his hat.

Svip and I watched him depart, walking again at his spry pace that seemed to belie any hint of age.

"How did it go?" Svip asked me worriedly.

"It was fine." I glanced down at him, and could not help smiling at his doubtful expression. "It really was, Svip. You don't need to worry. I'll not try to kill Mithrandir any time soon." _Even if I did try, _I thought, _I'm sure it wouldn't work_. I added, "And I'm not going to sulk because he's here."

"Good," Svip said.

With Svip at my side, I again inspected our front line, walking the wall to the first milecastles north and south, and ending up at the north tower by the gate once more.

Svip now proudly carried with him the crossbow we'd given him and a quiver of bolts fastened to his belt. When we returned to the north tower, I turned my thoughts to arranging things so that he could see to fire at the enemy.

The hay bale on which the target had been strapped for Svip's crossbow lesson looked a likely answer. I unhooked the target, then enlisted one soldier's aid in hauling the bale over to the parapet.

Shoved up against one of the crenellations, the new firing platform was just about perfect. Standing on it put Svip at a good height to fire through the embrasure. It made a convenient bench for him to sit on while we waited, as well, although he kept hopping up again to join me in staring into the dark.

"Why is it taking them so long?" Svip asked me once, in a whisper.

"Because they want to frighten us," I said. "They think the longer we have to wait, the more afraid of them we'll be."

I did not speak the continuation of that thought, which was that their strategy was nigh to flawless.

Assuming we did not plan any last-minute improvements to the wall – which we did not – then the longer our foes could make us cool our heels here, the better for them. Nerves, impatience and boredom all would play upon us, little by little chipping at our readiness.

Nearly all of our Men here had seen battle before; most were veterans from the Osgiliath garrison and the wilds of Ithilien. That, at least, was something for which to be thankful, that we had not unblooded recruits to deal with. These Men would handle the waiting better than would many of our brethren in the City, merchants and tradesmen who had never stood within earshot of an arrow's flight. I loathed to think of the prospect that faced our folk, when the enemy's advance breached Rammas Echor.

_If it does_, I added to myself, striving to hold my pessimism at bay. _We may yet turn back their tide. No foe has yet breached the Rammas_.

_Which means nothing_, my mind argued grimly. _No foe has yet attacked the Rammas, either_.

Evening was drawing in, little difference though there was between the murk of the day and the encroaching night. As the last hints of light in the sky faded, I found myself absently rubbing my gauntleted hands together, and flexing my fingers to bring some warmth and life into them. Only as I noticed what I was doing, did I realise that my hands had grown entirely cold, and with only the faintest trace of feeling.

"Damnation," I muttered. My feet were not doing any too well, either. I stomped them and then irritably kicked the parapet, muttering further imprecations under my breath as the numbness showed no sign of diminishing.

I supposed I ought to allow myself another swallow or two of River water, much though I hated to use any of my diminishing supply. If it would hold off the cold a little longer, I told myself, it was worth using it now instead of waiting until I was too weak to even drink.

I uncorked my canteen and took a swig, sourly noting how little my hands felt of their actions. I paused for a moment, then took another swallow before corking the canteen again.

I wasn't sure if I felt slightly warmer after that drink, or if I only thought that because I wanted it to be true.

"How much water do you have left?" Svip asked, crouching on the hay bale and eyeing me frowningly through the torchlight.

"About a third of the canteen."

"Here. You'd better take mine, too," he offered, unhooking a flask from his belt and holding it out to me.

"No, that's all right, Svip," I argued. "I've got enough."

"No, you don't. I can drink any water. You need the River water; now take it."

I smiled ruefully as I accepted the proffered bottle and fastened it to my own belt. I remarked, "Good thing I've got all of you to look after me."

"It certainly is," Svip agreed, in a prim, righteous tone. I grinned, thinking that if only my brother were green-skinned and three and a half feet tall, he and Svip would be one and the same person.

Svip stood up and leaned on the embrasure to look out, boosting himself on his elbows so that his feet dangled against the wall. I stared beyond the wall as well, and wondered despite myself if I should bow to Faramir's wishes and betake myself out of there.

There were strong arguments in favour of such a course – chief among them, the risk of our father taking some desperate step, that I might forestall if I went home and proved to him once and for all that I was alive.

But the arguments on the other side sounded just as loudly in my mind.

What would it look like to our Men, if I were to leave now?

It might seem a good omen to them that I had returned. That in spite of the tales of my death, I had come back to fight alongside them at the hour of our country's greatest need.

But what would it look like if I returned only to flee, before the enemy had even shown their faces?

_You're stretching the point, Boromir_, I argued. _You don't want to leave, so you're seeking excuses that say you don't have to_.

If I thought it might damage morale for me to leave before the battle, what did I think it would do if I returned only to immediately get myself killed again?

I scowled out at the dark.

Had I heard something out there, beyond the wall?

I listened harder, and heard nothing.

There was another explanation, I thought, for the enemy's delay in attacking us – above and beyond their aim to enlist our fear and impatience as weapons against us.

Faramir had said that the army of the Southrons was still coming in to camp, when the darkness closed in last night at Osgiliath. And who knew, I thought, how many more might have been yet to arrive; how many Men and siege engines and how much weaponry the foe might have had to move across the River? It could have taken them this whole day, while we waited and gnawed our fingernails, simply to move all their forces and supplies across the breast of Anduin.

Footsteps behind us made us turn, to see Faramir hurrying toward us.

"Anything yet?" he asked, with a preoccupied frown into the dark.

"Not yet," I said.

A moment later Mithrandir appeared, climbing swiftly to the wall and joining the rest of us in staring into silent nothing.

The Wizard's brows drew together as he gazed at the darkness, then he said quietly, "They are coming."

Faramir and I shared a brief, grim glance, then we clasped each other's hands. "I'll take command of the south fort; you take this," Faramir said.

I nodded. "Right."

Faramir turned and called to the nearest orderly, "Bring bows and quivers for me and for the Lord Boromir."

"For me as well," added Mithrandir. "I imagine I can still wield a bow, long though it has been since I tried my hand at it."

Faramir and Mithrandir smiled at each other, and I sincerely hoped that Mithrandir would chose to station himself under Faramir's command rather than mine. I shouted, "Archers at the ready! Count off by twos; we will fire in ranks when they approach." With Svip at my heels, I made for Lieutenant Siriondil, where he stood at the nearest catapult.

Our makeshift torches were guttering low. We could see no advancing enemy about them, but there was no telling what might lurk just beyond. As Siriondil saluted me, I ordered, "You will take command of the archers north of the tower. Pass the order to all catapult crews: fire two volleys of torches, one at this distance and another twenty yards farther."

"Yes, My Lord."

The orderly hastened up to me, handing me a longbow and quiver. I made speed to take my place at the embrasure where I had stood before, while Svip hopped eagerly to his hay bale at my side.

Faramir had already run across the walkway atop the forts' great gate, to take his post on the south tower. Now I saw Mithrandir stride to the walkway as well, his white hair and robe again seeming to glow brighter than they should in the darkness. Instead of following Faramir to the south fort, the Wizard stopped on the walkway, taking up position above the very center of the gate.

As Mithrandir nocked his first arrow, I could not help grimacing, petty though I knew my irritation to be.

Faramir would have been glad to have the Wizard fight at his side. And he would not have the constant suspicion that Mithrandir was watching to see if he'd do something evil or stupid.

Was it truly necessary, I wondered, for Mithrandir to choose a post for himself where he could keep an eye on me – and where, standing on the gate instead of on either tower, he was under no one's command but his own?

Again I thought that I heard something. Not the usual sounds of an Orc army approaching; no drumbeats, horn calls, battle songs or howls for our blood. Their commander must have ordered that they advance in silence. There seemed only a low, distant rumbling, as if the promise of bloodshed called forth growls of excitement that even fear of their leaders could not restrain.

Our first catapult volley sliced through the night in a torrent of flame. As the catapult crews adjusted their trajectories and readied the next volley, the rest of us stared desperately outward, struggling to pinpoint any movement in the gloom.

The catapults fired once more, the second rank of torches landing near the base of the slope, far below the wall.

The distant growling grew to a roar, and the dark shapes of our enemies charged through the torchlight.

They were racing at us along the Causeway Road. More of them scrambled up the slope to the road's either side.

I yelled, "Wait for my order." Distantly, from the north along the wall and from the south fort across the gate from us, I heard similar commands shouted by Lieutenant Siriondil and by Faramir.

Standing on his hay bale at the next embrasure, Svip cocked his crossbow and snapped the first bolt into place. I said to him quietly, "Don't fire with the volleys. Your range won't be that far. Wait till they're right below us, then your shots will tell."

He took up his place at the embrasure, with a grim nod. "I will," he said.

The blood-tinged torchlight below us seemed to hold only the disorderly ranks of Orc warriors. I could see none of the Southrons that Faramir and his Men had encountered at Osgiliath. That should not be a surprise to me, I supposed. I had no doubt that it was the usual strategy of Men who fought beside Orcs, to let their Orcish allies take the first brunt of the enemy's resistance whenever possible.

I shouted, "Mark your targets! First rank, fire!"

The first hours of that battle brought no surprises to us, none except perhaps the fact that the enemy seemed to be employing so little in the way of strategy.

Charge after charge ended for them with their corpses in piles, beneath the wall and along the road. For the few who made it with their siege ladders as far as the wall, their roads had the same end as those of their comrades. Their arrow-spitted corpses we sent plummeting to earth. Their ladders we hurled back from the wall, sending them toppling down upon the heaps of Orc bodies.

"Eight!" Svip exclaimed gleefully. He turned to me with a grin, as the latest assault crumbled.

The few surviving Orcs from this round scattered back down the slope, to the accompaniment of jeers both from our Men on the wall and from their own troops waiting in the shadows.

"That's eight I've got now!" continued Svip. "I think. Eight that I'm sure of, anyhow."

"That's splendid," I told him. I smiled, hoping that Svip did not notice how strained my smile must be, as I tried for what seemed the thousandth time to rub some warmth into my hands.

It was a pointless effort, I knew. I had scarcely any feeling left in my arms or my legs. Rubbing my hands together was not likely to help.

I told myself, _You had bloody better take yourself out of here before ever this fight becomes hand-to-hand_. Not that one must be able to feel one's limbs in order to fight, but it generally helps.

Another line of them charged, running at us over the piles of their fallen.

"Mark your targets! First rank, fire!"

I wondered, _What are they playing at_?

What was the point of these frontal assaults, that got so many of them slain to no purpose? Unless, I thought, they were testing us, sacrificing some of their troops in the effort to gauge our firepower. That, and perhaps to fool us into thinking they had no better plan of assault, that when they did launch some different strategy upon us it might take us the more by surprise.

At last they chose a new tactic. No more of them raced through the torchlight. Instead they now held fast at the foot of the slope, and sent arrow volleys and catapult shot at our walls.

Few or none of their arrows told. At least I saw no Man fall to them along my stretch of the wall.

The catapults posed a keener threat. They were firing again their incendiary missiles, aimed high over the battlements and crashing down into the fortress itself.

Our stone buildings were at little risk. The same could not be said of the thatched roof and wooden interior of the stables, to which many of their shots fell perilously close.

We concentrated our own fire upon their catapults. Twice we succeeded in forcing them to pull back their line. Yet even so, as they withdrew into the dark and out of our range, they were able to adjust their catapults so that many shots still soared above our wall and down into the buildings beyond.

_I want those damned catapults_, I thought. _They shouldn't be that good. When all of this is over, we need to get our hands on a couple of their catapults and figure out how they work_.

"I wish they'd charge again," muttered Svip.

I smiled ruefully over at him. He was leaning on the embrasure with his head propped on his arms, scowling out toward our invisible foe. Their new tactic had taken them beyond the range of Svip's crossbow long before the rest of us had to cease firing, and he was not at all pleased.

"They may oblige you sooner than you like, Master Svip," came the voice of Mithrandir. The Wizard walked up to us, shouldering his longbow. He said to me briskly, "The stables are at the most risk from their fire. We must get the horses moved to safety."

"Aye, we must," I agreed, barely restraining a grin as I saw a chance to get him out of my hair for a while. "Will you take charge of that operation?"

Mithrandir, I will warrant, knew precisely what I was doing. It did not trouble him unduly. He smiled with grim amusement and said, "Willingly."

I called a sergeant of the tower guard over to us. "Lord Mithrandir will command the evacuation of the stables," I informed him. "See that a platoon is placed at his disposal. Some Men should remain at the stables to fight any fire that takes hold. My Lord," I continued to Mithrandir, "such wains and carts as we have should be readied for the evacuation of our sick and wounded. Hitch what horses are necessary and have the others saddled and ready at the gate, that there may be no delay when we withdraw from the forts."

"Aye, My Lord," Mithrandir answered with a bow of his head, still eyeing me in amusement. He turned, and set out at such a pace that the unfortunate sergeant had to all but run to keep up with him.

Again we waited, while they fired upon us from outside the range of our archers and our catapults.

I took a drink from my canteen. This time the Anduin's water seemed to bring me no reviving warmth.

Svip had turned from the embrasure. He was watching me with wide, troubled eyes.

"I know, Svip," I sighed. "Don't say it. I have to get back to the River soon."

_Very soon_, I silently added.

New symptoms had come to join the numbness and the cold.

I was starting to feel dizzy. It was nothing disabling as yet, but it needed little imagination to figure out what Faramir or Svip would say in answer to that.

Impatiently I rubbed a streak of sweat from my brow. I felt almost feverish, with the distant mocking voices of delirium whispering at the edges of my mind.

I took another swallow of River water, willing the voices into silence. They did not obey me.

I stared at my hands as I corked the canteen again. I might as well have been watching the actions of someone else, for all that my hands felt of their motions.

_Go_, I ordered myself. _Get out while you can. _

_Go to your father before you get yourself killed again for nothing_.

"All right," I said heavily, hating to have to say it. "I'll leave."

Svip smiled, then he added quickly, "I'm coming with you."

"Of course," I agreed, managing to smile back. "_We'll_ leave."

It was, I reflected, as good a time as any to make my departure – probably a better time than most. Better now than to wait until another assault was hurled at our wall, when most likely I would convince myself that I couldn't leave while our Men were in peril.

"Sergeant," I called. "Take command here."

"Aye, My Lord."

"Right, Svip," I said, as my companion hopped down from his firing platform. "We'll go tell Faramir we're leaving. That ought to make him happy."

It shouldn't bother me, I thought as we hastened over the gate, to walk without feeling any hint of my legs. I'd had more or less that experience any number of times, although, to be sure, it was usually experienced on late-night returns from the tavern.

Faramir, indeed, looked near overwhelmed with relief, when I told him of my decision. I wanted to say that he should leave with me, too, so pale and exhausted did he appear. But one of us had to stay, to keep up our Men's courage and to hold the retreat together if it should come to that.

He cast a distracted glance into the darkness, then turned frowningly back to me. "You're not going alone?"

"No," Svip piped up. "I'm going with him."

"Boromir, for heaven's sake," Faramir sighed. "You need to take more Men with you. There's no sense in not having enough to put up a fight, if you run into the enemy."

He was right, of course, and besides I was too tired to argue. I thought for a moment, then said, "Captain Cirion's Company of Rangers are stationed on the wall south of the tower. Let them be sent for and ordered to proceed to the gate. There should be horses ready for them there."

Faramir nodded and turned to relay my command to the next orderly. Svip meanwhile said in concern, "Will they be willing to leave without Thorolf? He's still in the House of Healing."

There was much, I thought, that Svip yet had to learn about the ways of Men, particularly the question of obeying orders. But I only assured him, "We will get the wounded out soon. Thorolf's friends know he will not be abandoned."

I rubbed my brow. The action did nothing to fight off a sudden upsurge of dizziness, and the increasing din of the voices in my mind.

"Boromir," Svip urged, his voice sounding much farther from me than the voices that whispered in my brain. "Come on. Let's go."

I turned and stared outward into the inky sky.

_It is not all in my mind_, I thought suddenly. There was something out there, in the sky.

It sounded as a distant, wailing howl, that all of us knew too well.

The cry awoke echoes, that seemed to sound all about us. From the sky's blackness before and behind and above us came the cry of terror and hate, as the Riders of the Enemy surrounded us in the dark.

Along the wall, from first one throat, then from many, came answering murmurs of fear. I heard a dull clatter as one Man's bow must have slipped from his nerveless hand.

I glanced over at Faramir, who was gazing at the sky. A bitter smile touched his pallid face, then he drew an arrow and nocked it, standing ready to fire into the dark.

At my other side, Svip gave a tiny whimper of despair.

"Stand your ground!" I shouted, as the murmurs of our Men grew louder, and one or two of them turned to run. "Stand fast! These carrion crows cannot harm us. They think to strike dread in our hearts with their howling, but they have not yet dared to meet us in fight. This night the carrion over which they scream are their own fallen, not ours."

The murmuring quieted slightly, a few Men even daring to shout out jibes at our invisible taunters. But the Men's voices sounded hollowly in the night, with the shrieks of the Nazgûl seeming to warp all other sound.

"What are they?" Svip whispered.

"Servants of the Nameless One," Faramir answered quietly. "Once Men, until they fell to his promises of power."

"Why am I so afraid of them?" came Svip's frantic question. "I don't want to be afraid."

"We all are," Faramir said.

"You are?"

Faramir nodded once, with another grim smile. "Very."

"Boromir's not," Svip insisted.

"Of course I am," I lied, wondering again why their cries did not strike ice in my veins as they did to everyone else. I looked over at Faramir, seeing the bitter desperation of his smile and the fear and anger warring in his eyes. "What say you, brother?" I asked. "Has Gondor no war song that can drown out their howls?"

Faramir turned to me, his smile seeming finally to reach his eyes. "I'm sure we have, brother," he answered, "but we do not need you to sing it for us. Your voice would strike more fear in our hearts than any Black Rider's. Why are you still here? Are you leaving or aren't you?"

"I'm leaving," I said.

"Do not make me carry you to the gate and tie you to your horse."

He turned to face the darkness once more. He began to sing, his voice carrying clearly through the Nazgûls' screams.

_Men of Gondor, stop your dreaming_

_Can't you see their spearpoints gleaming?_

_See their warrior banners streaming_

_To this battlefield?_

_Men of Gondor, stand ye steady_

_It cannot be ever said ye_

_For the battle were not ready_

_Gondor will not yield!_

One by one the voices of our comrades joined Faramir's, until the old battle song indeed rose almost loud enough to drown the Nazgûl wails out of all hearing. As the song rang about us, Faramir hissed at me, "Will you get out of here, Boromir?"

"I'm going," I insisted.

_Gondor's strength has made her_

_Freedom's strong crusader_

_Swords of Gondor have cut deep the heart of the invader!_

"Then go, you idiot!" Faramir hissed again.

_The sword is met, by sword replying_

_Steel on steel, on strength relying_

_Skyward Gondor's flag is flying_

_Gondor never yields!_

Svip was tugging on my hand, but I did not notice it until he got a good hold on my sleeve and yanked.

I thought I heard a note of fury in the Nazgûls' howls, as our war song rose into the dark. Then other sounds cut through the distant shrieking and the song.

There were shouts from Men along the wall. Beyond sounded a roar as our enemy once more charged. And from the Causeway Road came an unearthly trumpeting, as of every horn of the armies of Mordor winding as one.

Faramir yelled, "Boromir, damn you, go!" He sprang to the nearest embrasure, overlooking the road.

I knew very well that I should obey him. Nonetheless, I ran to the parapet as well, even as Svip shouted desperately, "Faramir told you to go!"

The torches our catapults had fired showed a sight from a fevered nightmare. Up the slopes again raced rank after rank of Orcs, joined now by slighter figures in scarlet tunics and gleaming scale mail, the uniform of the Men of Harad.

But my gaze was riveted to the creature that charged up the Causeway Road, scattering and trampling piles of corpses as it came.

I had heard of such creatures in travellers' tales and seen them painted in my childhood's geography books. And once a merchant from the south had brought one of their tusks as a gift of tribute to my father. But never had I seen the great _mûmak_ of Harad, charging at us now with its tusks wrapped in gold, scarlet trappings flying over its vast tree-trunk legs, and its back and head encased in gold armour, from which emerged only its sails of ears and its trunk that roared forth fury and destruction.

My brother shouted again, "Get out of here, Boromir!" Then he raised his voice further and bellowed, "South tower! Fire on the _mûmak_! They will use it as a battering ram; let it not reach the gate! Independent fire at will!"

My arms felt as though I were moving them not at all, but I drew an arrow from my quiver and fired with the others.

Arrow upon arrow bounced from the _mûmak_'s armour, as hail off a rooftop. Svip screamed, "Boromir, come on!"

The _mûmak_'s trumpeting call was taken up by its fellows. Another of the monsters came charging from the darkness up the Causeway Road, and up the slope to either side lumbered more, shaking Middle Earth with their tread.

Arrow after arrow finally lodged in the first _mûmak_'s eyes and neck. With a scream that I thought put the Nazgûls' cries to shame, the great beast toppled to its side, plunging through the wall at the roadside and falling amid an avalanche of stones.

As it fell I saw for the first time that the _mûmak_ had drawn a cart in its wake. The cart was laden with barrels, and a Man rode upon it. He tried now to leap free, only to be caught by the wheels and thrown down with _mûmak_, cart and barrels to the slope below.

The _mûmakil_ that toiled up the slopes had more labour than their brethren on the road. Yet the first of them was drawing nigh our wall, a walking tower that bristled with our arrows and bellowed its rage and pain.

Dwarfed by the creature in his care, a Man rode also in the cart that this _mûmak_ pulled. More dark barrels, nearly as tall as the Man, jolted in the cart behind him.

"Boromir!" Svip shrieked again. "Come on!"

The _mûmak_ swerved north just before it would have smashed into the wall. As I fired, my arrow joining countless others that rained upon the _mûmak_'s handler, the Man seized a torch that had been mounted at the fore of his cart, and lunged with it at the jolting barrels.

Faramir seized my shoulders and dragged me away from the embrasure. I yelled, "Damn it to hell!"

He shouted me down with, "Boromir, you bloody moron, get out of here now!"

Svip tugged on my leg, screaming, "Boromir, please!"

If we'd had any leisure for such reactions, I would have laughed. Instead I yelled over the trumpeting of the _mûmakil_ and the shouts of our Men and the enemy, "Let go of my leg, Svip! All right, brother, you win! I'll see you at the City!"

"You'd better!" Faramir yelled back. "If you get killed again, I'll not forgive you!"

I shouted at him, "The same goes for you!"

I shouldered my bow, then I scooped Svip up in my arms and ran with him for the stairs, not looking back.

I was racing down the stairs when the very world seemed to explode.

We were hit by a rush of heat and sound and flame. I was thrown off my feet and tumbled down a few stairs, trying both not to squash Svip and to shield him with my body from the heat that rolled over us in a wave.

Somehow both Svip and I came to a stop, relatively unscathed. I crouched on the step where we had landed, Svip yelling in my ear "What was that?"

I looked over my shoulder in the direction of the wall.

Just to the south of our position, a gaping hole had been torn in the Rammas wall. It stood like a ragged new gate, and through it burst such a sight as I hope never to see again.

A _mûmak_ plunged through the hole, trunk raised high in a trumpeting of anguish, its vast armoured head dripping with blood. It dragged behind it the shattered skeleton of the cart. Barrels and Man were nowhere to be seen, but the cart was engulfed in flame. Fire from the cart leapt up to catch alight the _mûmak_'s crimson trappings, and the creature's bellowing seemed to tear the air asunder.

I could only suppose that the barrels had held some substance that caused the explosion. There was not time for further pondering.

I staggered to my feet, letting go of Svip and turning in dread to look back at the wall where we had stood.

To my undying relief, I saw Faramir still standing upon the wall, alive and unharmed. He yelled something at me that I could not hear, and furiously motioned for me to go on. Then, with others of our defenders, he ran to the edge of the wall, firing at the _mûmak_ as it charged bellowing into the fortress.

The burning horror plunged toward us. I seized an arrow and fired as the maddened beast thundered by. In the corner of my vision I saw Svip grab one of his crossbow bolts and do the same.

An instant later I grabbed Svip again, clutching him to me in some semblance of protection as the _mûmak_ of Harad plummeted to the cobblestones, pierced with scores of arrows to collapse in blood and flame.

Numb, and nigh without feeling my body may have been, but nonetheless I felt it as the _mûmak_ fell. Svip squealed and hid his face against my chest, as the monster's head smashed down scarce five yards away from us. One blood-dripping tusk crashed onto the stairs, reaching almost to where we stood.

For a moment longer I could only stare. Then I was running down the stairs again. On my heels came many of our Men from the wall, leaping over the _mûmak_'s tusk and racing to take up position behind the _mûmak_'s still twitching body, as their new line of defence.

Through the breach that the _mûmak_ had torn ran Orcs and Southrons screaming for our blood, the first foes of Gondor ever to step through Rammas Echor's wall.

I hesitated for another instant at the foot of the stairs, wanting desperately to turn back and join our Men. Then through the din I heard the wild neighing of a horse, and Svip yelled from my arms, "Mithrandir!"

I turned to see Shadowfax the _Meara _draw to a rearing halt. On Shadowfax's back sat the Wizard, seeming to glow pure white in our murky hell of dusk and fire.

A bay horse, saddled and bridled but without rider, had galloped at Shadowfax's side. I did not know if it was the Wizard or the _Meara_ that the other horse had followed, but the bay now waited patiently as Mithrandir shouted to us, "Your steed, My Lord! The Rangers are waiting for you at the gate."

"My thanks!" I yelled back at him, and I ran to the bay. I set down Svip, leapt to the saddle with an ease born of necessity – for my kinsfolk of the Rohirrim would affirm that it was not born of skill – and reached down again to swing Svip onto the saddle before me.

"Mithrandir!"

The shout came from Faramir, standing upon the stairs just below the _mûmak_'s bloodied tusk. He called out, "Mithrandir, take charge of the wounded! Get them to the City! Tell my father we will hold here as long as we can!" Faramir paused for one moment, then he added, "And get my brother out of here!"

"I will, My Lord!"

My brother turned to face the foe, as Mithrandir wheeled Shadowfax about and set out for the gate.

The bay horse whinnied eagerly, but awaited my instructions. An instant later, with a curse under my breath, I turned the bay, to follow where the Wizard and the _Meara_ led.

_Faramir_, my mind repeated desperately, _if you die I will never forgive you_.

With the battle raging behind us, we rode, for the gate of the Causeway Forts and for Minas Tirith.


	13. Chapter Thirteen: The Defence of Waterfr...

Author's Note (March 2003): Apologies (again) for the long delay in getting this written and posted. I'm afraid, in reply to the nice readers who've asked, that I can't really give any good estimate of how long it'll be in between chapter postings, what with the usual madness of life. But if you want an update on that in the future, then email me, and I promise to at least let you know how it's looking at the time I email you back!

This chapter's a bit shorter than previous ones, and it ends with a scene that a lot of us have been waiting for …

I hope you enjoy! Things should be really getting fun in the chapters ahead!

_Chapter Thirteen: The Defence of Waterfront _

We rode into the dark, our horses' hooves striking sparks from the paving stones of the Rammas road.

Eighteen rode in our party, counting Svip and me. With us were Cirion and our other comrades on the journey from Lilla Howe, minus the wounded Thorolf. As well there were twelve other Rangers of Captain Cirion's command. Their names I did not yet know, but most of them I remembered seeing before. Some, I thought, had accompanied Cirion when he made his reports to the Council in Minas Tirith, and some I remembered from our escape from Cair Andros.

We had parted from Mithrandir at the gate of the Forts. He had delivered me into the Rangers' care, informing Cirion in a portentous tone that the Lord Boromir's life depended on getting back to the River, and that if Cirion failed, he'd have a Wizard's wrath to deal with.

Cirion was clearly not among those who held the Grey Wanderer in any dread. He had snorted and remarked that he would be a lot more worried about the Lord Denethor's wrath.

As we galloped through the gate, I glanced back, and saw Mithrandir leap down from Shadowfax and stride toward the House of Healing. Already those few wounded who could yet walk were limping out-of-doors, toward the waiting carts. Many more were being carried out from the House. It wrenched my heart to see them, to hear the tormented murmurs of a few and to see the deathly stillness of so many others.

I could not help but wonder if bringing them home to Minas Tirith would do them any good. If the skills of our healers here and the wisdom of Mithrandir could not wake them from this black slumber, there was little hope that the healers and herb masters of the City would have any more chance of success.

Yet come what might, we could not desert them to the ravages of our foes. That, at least, was an indignity we could spare them.

Just outside the gate, we turned south and east, along the road that traces the inside perimeter of Rammas Echor.

Svip huddled close against me as we rode. The bay horse seemed far more skittish from Svip's presence than had the steed we rode from Osgiliath to the Forts. I had the sensation that she might bolt off the road at any moment, in the attempt to shake this unknown creature from her back.

Svip, I was sure, sensed it too. He clung to me, trying not to move or do anything that might startle the horse.

As we rode farther from the Causeway Forts, the sounds of combat faded into black silence. At none of the milecastles had any enemy yet been seen. We rode in the faint light of torches along the wall. In my imagination, our shadowy company seemed like some band of ghosts out of legend, slain warriors doomed to ride patrol for eternity along a frontier that they had once failed to defend.

At first we still saw occasional bursts of fire behind us, from explosions as the foe sought to tear further breaches in our wall. Soon they, too, were swallowed by the darkness, and we were left to imagine what fate might be overtaking the comrades we had left behind.

At each milecastle, we halted in reply to the guards' challenge. Eleven of these towers line the wall between the Causeway and the Harlond. Each brought some minutes of delay to our journey, for at each I commanded the guards to abandon the milecastle and join us.

It galled me to leave the Rammas thus unguarded. But worse was the prospect of leaving the tiny garrisons isolated on the wall, to be cut off from retreat when the enemy swarmed over our fields.

The soldiers at the milecastles did not greet me as a vision or a ghost, for the news of my return had journeyed before me. The garrisons had been minimally reinforced by three Men at each, sent by Lieutenant Siriondil from our troops withdrawn from Osgiliath. They had brought with them tales of the Captain General's miraculous reappearance, and now their comrades greeted me with enthusiastic cheers, as I arrived to prove the truth of the tales.

I did my best to act as though nothing were amiss with me. But I was sure that if any Man looked at me too closely, I would appear more a ghost than a Man.

Certainly I felt near enough to being disembodied. I barely even felt cold any longer, which I suspected was not a positive sign. The only way I could tell that I was trembling, was when I saw my hands shaking as they gripped the reins.

Svip turned cautiously once to look at me when we were halted at one of the milecastles. Apparently he did not like what he saw. When we rode on, he began speaking to me, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of our progress. He was talking, I supposed, in the attempt to keep me awake, as he had when he dragged me back from my near-fatal walk in the hills near his home.

I did not think, this time, that I was in danger of losing consciousness as he thought I was. Then I realised that he had just repeated one question several times over before I had truly heard him.

Perhaps Svip was right, after all. At the moment, I thought, I would trust his opinion on the matter much farther than I would trust my own.

I tightened my grip on the reins in the attempt to make myself feel something, but sight was the only sense that told me my hands had moved at all.

_Right_, I told myself. _You are going to stay awake, and so you are going to talk_.

So I answered Svip's questions, and found myself talking, as well, of things that I could not remember how I had begun speaking of them; whether any question of Svip's had led into them or not. I spoke of childhood visits to Belfalas, of the gigantic sandcastle that our parents and Uncle Imrahil built once on the beach of Dol Amroth with Faramir and me, of the way that the Tower of Ecthelion catches the sunlight in the first rays of dawn, of Merry and Pippin and Frodo and Sam and the tales they had told of life in their far-away Shire.

By the time we reached the last milecastle before the Harlond, it was all I could do to halt my wandering reminiscences, and focus enough on the necessary words to command the garrison to abandon their post, ready their horses and accompany us. I believe that I managed to give those orders. But the moments that followed, as we waited, turned into a distant blur. I felt as though I were under water looking up, watching the events taking place above me in the world of light and air.

Another horseman rode up beside Svip and me. I recognised him as Captain Cirion, and understood that he was looking at me in concern. But although I heard speech exchanged between him and Svip, I could not catch the meaning of their words.

Then a new sensation made its way through the mists enclosing my mind.

_The River_, I thought.

I was sure I could smell the River. I could smell the water, smell its rich, dark mud, smell the breezes that dance over Anduin's silver ripples, bringing with them a whisper of the distant sea.

"Boromir," Svip said in an insistent tone, his words suddenly making sense to me again. "We're nearly to the River."

"Yes," I heard myself answer him. "Yes, we are."

As we rode, bit by bit the mists surrounding me seemed to fade.

I still could feel nothing. But the sounds seemed returning with a clarity greater than ever before. We seemed riding through a brilliant tapestry of sound: the drumming of hooves upon stone and the jangling of our equipage, the horses' breathing and the pounding of my own heart, and above and throughout all the rushing of the River – though when I truly listened, I did not think I could hear the River at all, except within my mind.

From the wall ahead of us glowed a sudden increase in the number and frequency of torches. I saw the forms of Men standing silhouetted upon the wall, and saw the dark outline of the Harlond Gate. And from beyond the gate came noise, that I felt sure was real, not from inside my mind.

It sounded as though some great merchant vessel had just docked, and the crew and workmen were busy unloading the cargo. There were shouts in many voices, occasional laughter and curses and even a snatch of song, creaking and rolling sounds as of barrels being rolled down ramps from shipboard onto the dock.

_I am still imagining things_, I thought. The Merchant Adventurers of Gondor had always claimed they would work on through any challenge or peril, but even they were not likely to sail a cargo in to port with the Enemy's darkness all about us and the hordes of Mordor pounding at our gates.

Our company rode in to the nearest of the huge stables that stretch out to either side within the Harlond Gate. A trumpet sounded from the wall above us.

As I dismounted and turned to help Svip, it occurred to me that I had some feeling in my limbs again. I had felt my feet land on the hard dirt floor, and as I set Svip down, I felt a hint of his warmth against my hands.

Cirion hastened up to us. He began, "My Lord –" reaching out to grasp my arm.

I interrupted him, trying not to let my desperation sound too clearly in my voice, "Forgive me, Cirion. I must get to the River, now. Find out what is happening here; when I return we will take council to determine our next move."

"Aye, My Lord." He saluted, then called one of the others to take charge of my horse. I hurried from the stable toward the gate. My heart seemed thudding madly within my skull, and I could feel again the palsied trembling in my hands. Svip scurried at my side, and I noticed after a few moments that Cirion was following me, as well.

_At least_, I thought, _there will be someone larger than Svip to try and catch me if I swoon_.

I walked through the gate, which stood open, into a scene of near-frenzied activity. At the great warehouse just to the south of the gate, Men were carrying crates through the wide doorway and heaving them into a crazily varied selection of carts and wagons, from one of the largest canopied wains down to a vehicle scarcely larger than a dog cart. Barrels were being rolled down a long wooden ramp from the loft of the warehouse into one of the larger carts, and from my left came sounds as though the Harlond had turned into some gigantic smithy or a carpenter's workshop. The din of metal hammered upon metal blended with duller hammering on wood.

Before I could begin to make sense of what I saw and heard, a booming voice hailed me, "My Lord Boromir! My dear Lord!"

I found myself slapped on the back with a force that nearly knocked me off my feet, then my hand was seized and shaken vigorously, well nigh enough in my weakened state to shake my poor brains from out of my skull.

As tall as I and nearly twice as broad, Ivarr Son of Yngvar, Leader of the Innkeepers' Guild and Landlord of the Orc's Head Tavern, grinned madly as he shook my hand. He looked torn between bursting out in song and breaking down in joyful tears.

"My Lord, this is marvellous!" he effused. "Valar's balls, it is good to have you back."

"It's good to be back, Ivarr," I managed, gritting my teeth and trying to convince my head to stop spinning.

His eyes narrowed and he finally stopped shaking my hand. "You look hideous," he declared. "Are you ill?"

"Something like that," I said. Reflecting that I was probably going to get as tired of explaining this as I was of explaining how I'd come back from the dead, I said wearily, "I have … contracted a condition that requires me to be in contact with River water on a regular basis. I'm sorry, I need to take a quick swim. I'll be back soon, and you will tell me what is going on here and what we can do to help."

Another thought occurred to me; I was going to have to bring a hell of a lot more River water with me to Minas Tirith than I'd brought to the Causeway Forts, if I expected to spend any time there at all, and perhaps to last out a siege.

I did not know even if my survival would be possible on such terms. Perhaps it did not matter how much water I had with me, if I stayed too long, too far from the River itself. But I would have to try. Current events were not such as to make lingering by the River particularly healthy, either.

"Ivarr," I continued, "have you two or three empty barrels that I could purchase from you?" I remembered that I didn't have any coin on me, but that shouldn't matter; my credit had always been good at the Orc's Head. "I'll need to take some River water to the City with me."

"Of course!" exclaimed Ivarr. He grinned and shook his head, adding, "It'll be the first time I've served Your Lordship water. You're sure you wouldn't prefer something stronger?"

"Perhaps later," I told him, managing a pale smile.

"My Lord," Cirion put in, while I bit my lip and hoped I would not pass out while I was conversing with them, "with your permission I'll go with Master Ivarr to take charge of the barrels. Perhaps he can tell me what the situation is here. Are you commanding this operation, Sir?" he asked the innkeeper.

Ivarr grimaced ruefully. "Partially commanding it, for my sins," he answered. He nodded to Cirion and said, "Let us go, then." Then Ivarr asked, with another concerned look at me, "You'll be all right, My Lord?"

"I'll be fine," I said, adding silently, _As long as all of you leave me alone and I can get into that water right now_.

As the Ranger and the innkeeper set out toward Ivarr's tavern in the dockside village of Waterfront, I glanced dizzily down at Svip.

"You coming in for a swim, Svip?" I asked him.

"Of course," he said, eyeing me with a kind of wild, panicked look that made me wonder if he were contemplating pushing me into the River.

"Good," I said. "Hopefully you can pull me out before I drown, if I faint in the water."

Svip did not look as though he appreciated such jokes. To be perfectly honest, I was not sure that it was a joke at all. I hurried unsteadily along one of the jetties and down the nearest stairs, then I dove into the water.

I do not think I can truly describe what that water felt like. I swam underwater to near the midpoint of the River, drove downward until I could rake my hands through the mud on the bottom, then surged up to the surface again. It was with a sense of loss that I allowed myself to break through to the air, accepting the necessity of feeling something other than water about me.

I drifted onto my back, gazing up at the featureless sky. I thought what a shame it was that there were no stars to be seen. They were all that could be desired to make this instant perfect, if I could float down the River watching the stars dance above me.

For a moment I floated with the current, before regretfully reminding myself that it was not the best plan for me to get washed down to Lebennin while the City faced Sauron's armies.

With a sigh I rolled over and struck out toward the dock.

After a few strokes, I realised that Svip was swimming beside me.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, as we swam.

"Wonderful," I said, and I meant it.

We reached one of the sets of stone stairs leading down off the jetties. I sat low on the staircase, leaning back against the step above me and heaving a blissful sigh as the water lapped about my chest and shoulders. Svip hopped onto the next step up and sat there swinging his feet through the water.

In the dark across the River, I thought I saw a hint of light in the sky. A hint of red, bloodstained light, as if the eastern shore were afire.

_Dawn must be coming again_, I thought. _Or what passes for dawn, in these days_.

I reached down into the water and unfastened my canteen from my belt. I drank until the canteen was emptied, then dipped the canteen in the River and filled it up again. This, too, I drained, and only when I had filled the canteen again did I cork it and hook it to my belt once more.

I leaned back again and closed my eyes. I could almost believe for one instant that the foe was not closing in about us, that the sun was not swallowed by darkness and that we were not fighting for Gondor's very life.

For that moment there seemed nothing real in all Middle Earth save the River, and the feeling it brought to me of sheer peace and happiness.

I opened my eyes and looked over at Svip, who watched me with a hesitant smile.

"Svip," I said. "Thank you for bringing me back to life."

He nodded solemnly. "Thank you for coming back to life," he answered.

_And that_, I told myself, _is all the peace and happiness you're going to get_. I sat up and said, "Since we are alive, we had better go see what crisis we're in at the moment."

I stood and made my dripping way up the stairs. Svip scurried beside me. We walked onto the pier, taking the final step back into reality.

The carts that had been drawn up in front of the south warehouse were gone. I saw what must be the last two of them pulling out through the Harlond Gate. One was a rough farm wagon stacked so high with barrels that I could only catch a glimpse of the Man driving the wagon and the horse that drew it. Leashed to the back of the wagon was the little dog cart, not large enough to warrant devoting a horse to pulling it.

Men were hauling two empty carts toward the warehouse, out from one of the alleyways of Waterfront. Another two wagons were just drawing in through the gate. Their drivers halted them in the large open place before the gate, and with loud and some rather blasphemous greetings, Men hastened toward them, starting to unload the wagons' contents almost before they had come to a stop. I blinked in surprise as I saw what they were unloading: armloads of wooden planks, wooden cart wheels and a few metal wheel rims, and a bizarre assortment of wooden household items, including a couple of tables, a massive armoire that took eight Men to heave it out of the wagon, and an elaborate and expensive-looking polished wooden bookcase.

Six Men stood near us on the dock, in earnest discussion. One of them, who from his bulk could only be Ivarr, glanced over and spotted us. He called out, "My Lord. Are you well?"

"Well indeed," I replied, striding over to them with Svip hastening at my heels.

The group consisted of Ivarr, Cirion, and four other Men who were known to me: Rađobard Son of Baldir, Leader of the Merchant Adventurers' Guild, Rađobard's son of fourteen or thereabouts, whom I remembered was named Boromir, the scrawny and hawk-nosed Nikolai Son of Grimhir, bartender in Ivarr's tavern, and Athelhelm Son of Athelbert, of the Carters' and Wheelwrights' Guild.

The guildsmen and the bartender, I noted, must all have been labouring in the same cause as their fellows who were now heaving furniture out of wagons. Most at least had their sleeves rolled up, and young Boromir Son of Rađobard had what seemed to be wood chips and sawdust stuck in his tunic and his hair. Rađobard himself, who was never seen clad in less than the richest silks and velvets, had gone so far as to doff his tunic and roll up his shirtsleeves, and I thought it must be the first time on record that Rađobard had appeared in public without a Dwarven kings' ransom in jewellery about his person.

All six of them bowed or saluted me. Ivarr was still in high good humour, beaming at me as though he'd created me himself. Nikolai, Athelhelm and Rađobard all grinned in marvelling delight, while my young namesake stared at me with widened eyes and open mouth, as though I were Elendil himself, not the thoroughly soaked and dripping Captain General.

"My Lord," declared Rađobard, "now I know that we will win. Not that I had much doubt of it before," he added, "but surely your return is a token of our coming victory."

I bowed in answer to his flowery speech, then smiled ruefully as I noticed the puddle spreading over the dock around my feet. "I hope you are right, Rađobard," I said, "though I fear I do not look like much of a token of victory." I continued, "For those of you who have not yet met him, this is my comrade-in-arms Svip of Anduin. Now tell me: where do we stand here?"

Ivarr reported, "My Lord, we are moving as much as possible of the contents of the Harlond warehouses into the City. By all accounts we may be facing a long siege, and if so, I need hardly tell you that hunger will be as fell a foe as all the Orcs that Mordor can fling at us. We have substantial stores of grain, flour and other foodstuffs here, enough that it is worth a few risks to ensure they remain in our hands rather than the enemy's."

He paused, then went on, frowning, "Some of us in the Council wished to begin this operation as soon as word came of the enemy massing at Osgiliath, but there have been difficulties. All but a handful of the City's carts are gone, bearing the women and children southward to safety. Nearly everything that has wheels has been devoted to that effort. The last of them left three days since – for which the Valar be thanked," he added, "but it left us little means of carrying the supplies, unless we chose to move them out strapped to our horses, two barrels at a time."

Ivarr paused again, eyeing me with a suddenly troubled, embarrassed expression. He said, "Several of us argued in the Council that the evacuation of the warehouses should be among our highest priorities; that all available manpower should be set to constructing new carts under the Carters and Wheelwrights' direction, and to moving the supplies to the City in whatever vehicles we could build or find. It was days in debate. Many yet refused to accept the seriousness of the threat, or were loath to devote their resources to any effort not directly in the service of their own guilds. And the Lord your father – all respect to him, My Lord, but I fear he has not been fully himself since the news of your death. Several sessions of the Council he did not attend at all, and when he did attend, he took not as active a role as is his wont, nor would he make any pronouncement to end the debate in one way or the other. It was only when your letter arrived yesterday, My Lord, that he seemed recalled to himself."

Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers nodded. "He placed Master Ivarr and me in joint command of the evacuation," Rađobard said, "and Master Athelhelm in command of building the carts. The Lord Steward put out a decree requesting all remaining citizens to donate building material for the construction of the carts. He has decreed that ten Men at the least from each guild must aid in the operation, and he has set the City Guard to collecting any cart-building materials that may be donated. A platoon of the Guard, as well, he has sent to patrol the wall here, to keep watch for any enemy approach and cover our retreat if necessary."

I nodded, studying the guildleaders' expressions. All of them were frowning now, and it took little insight to tell that the operation was not proceeding entirely as they would wish. I did a rough mental calculation and asked, "How many Men have you here? Unless many are working elsewhere, I have not seen enough to account for ten Men from each guild."

"No, My Lord," Athelhelm the Carter answered grimly. "Some, it is true, are driving the carts to and from the City, and unloading the supplies into the warehouses there. But several guilds have sent far from their full quotas. The Healers' Guild requested and received an exemption, on the grounds that they were needed more in preparing the Houses of Healing. Our guild agreed to make up the quota for the Healers. But some of the other guilds were still trying to argue their way out of the decree when we left the City yesterday. For all we know, they are still at it."

"They will regret it when they must answer to my father," I assured him. "And perhaps when we are besieged and our supplies are running out, they will regret it all the more."

I frowned up at the Rammas wall, where, barely visible to me, the City Guards kept watch for our foe.

One portion of my mind told me to order all of these Men back to the City at once; to declare that they had saved all the provisions they could, and we must not risk their lives by lingering here any longer. The nightmare scene we had left at the Causeway Forts did not give me hope that we had long to wait before Sauron's hordes spread across the plains.

Yet another voice within me argued that these guildsmen were right; that every barrel, bag and crate of foodstuffs we saved here was as vital a weapon against Sauron as any fighting Man of Minas Tirith. If we did find ourselves sustaining a drawn-out siege, we would find these supplies worth any risks that we had taken for them.

I asked, "No sign of the enemy has been observed here? No movement across the River?"

"None, My Lord," replied Ivarr, "not yet. Though," he added, "in this filthy murk it will be hard to tell."

"We'll be able to tell when they are shooting at us," observed Rađobard.

"I trust that they will be able to tell when we're shooting at them," I returned. "Very well. Cirion, how many Men have we brought with us?"

"One hundred and six in all, My Lord," the Ranger Captain reported, "counting the Lord Svip and yourself."

"Let the twelve most keen-sighted among them be sent to join the Men on the wall. The rest of us will join in the efforts here." I bowed to the guild leaders and said, "Gentlemen, my Men and I are at your disposal."

The day crept into its black, crippled dawn. We who had ridden from the Forts and the milecastles volunteered where our talents led us best, in cart-building under Athelhelm's command or in loading the carts.

I had no doubt that I would be of greater use heaving barrels than in trying my hand at carpentry. Ere long, I was working alongside our old comrades Cirion, Finn and Buslai, among a group sent to begin emptying the Great North Warehouse.

Alone of our travelling companions from Lilla Howe, young Holgar volunteered for cart-building duty. The young Man commented that he'd built plenty of fishing boats over the years, and that carts couldn't be that different.

After inquiring worriedly if I would be all right without him, Svip appointed himself as Holgar's apprentice. But with every hour that passed, Svip would run to check on me, and report excitedly upon his discoveries in the field of cart-building.

We laboured through the morn, with no sign of any enemy approaching, either from across the River or at our back across the Pelennor Fields. Several times in that first sickly daylight, the guards on the wall spotted red flashes through the haze, always from the direction of the Causeway Forts.

I thought, when a series of these flashes was reported to me, _Faramir is still holding the Forts_.

Thoughts of my brother hit me with pride and with sickening fear, jumbled together as one. And the unexpected thought came to me that perhaps I did not wish to be the father of any son who lived into adulthood, after all.

It was almost more than I could stand, knowing that my little brother fought for his life and the life of our country – and that he fought without me at his side. I thought, _How hard must it be to bear the knowledge that one's son stands upon the field of battle, and not to know if he will live to return_?

I told myself as I heaved sacks of flour down from the warehouse loft, _It will be no harder for you to bear it than for any other who has dwelt upon this Middle Earth, since the Doom of Men began._

Late in the forenoon, when Svip made his hourly report, he told me that we had a new source of cart-building materials. There was too long a delay between the departure of carts leaving the Harlond, and the return of the carts from the City with new lumber, wheels and other hardware. To make up for that delay, Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers had donated to the building effort the contents of his ship the _Eärendil_, moored here at the Harlond dock. Carts were being constructed now from the no-doubt priceless furniture out of Rađobard's own cabin, the bunks from the crew's quarters, the very structure of the cabins themselves, even some of the planks that made up the deck. Svip told me that Rađobard said he hoped they could avoid demolishing the ship entirely, but that he would sooner rip it to pieces himself than to run out of building materials and admit defeat.

About the noon, as near as I could judge, Rađobard himself sought me out. The guild leader looked much the worse for wear, as he twisted one of his gauntlets in his hands, and chewed upon the end of his normally immaculate moustache. At first, I thought it must be the sacrifice of his ship that troubled him, but I soon judged that his trouble had a broader source.

"My Lord," Rađobard began, making an effort to hold the gauntlet still and to leave off gnawing his moustache, "the carts are falling behind. They cannot return from the City fast enough, nor can we build them fast enough, to make up for the backlog in supplies moved out from the warehouses."

"We will never save all the supplies, Rađobard, no matter how we wish to," I told him. "It's as well if we resign ourselves to that, sooner rather than later." As he nodded, and the moustache-chewing commenced again, I inquired, "Does Athelhelm request more Men be placed on cart-building duty?"

"No, for the building materials are limited as well – unless we are to tear apart the very buildings of Waterfront. Already the _Eärendil_ is stripped bare, and Master Ivarr has sacrificed every table and bench from the Orc's Head."

_A sacrifice indeed_, I thought, with melancholy humour. One bench in particular in the Orc's Head common room had been graced by my lordly backside more than a few times over the past decades. Ivarr had made a point of religiously saving that bench for me, since the night near to thirty years before when I had fallen asleep beneath it. It was a toss-up whose mortification was greater the next morning; mine at having proved unable to hold my wine, or Ivarr's on discovering that the raw recruit he'd let sleep off the drink beneath a bench, was the Steward's Heir, taken out for a night on the town by his elder fellow officers.

"My Lord," Rađobard was continuing, "I have consulted with Ivarr and Athelhelm. We request that you authorise the seizure of property here in Waterfront, for use in the building effort."

An image sprang into my mind of the army of clerks who would be kept busy for weeks sorting out reparation claims – particularly if the seizures should extend to Minas Tirith itself. Yet, I reminded myself, both clerks and potential claimants were liable to be slain in the dark days that faced us. With that in mind, any effort to better our position seemed worth whatever mountains of legal claims it might generate, in the event of our City's survival.

"Very well," I said. "Begin with what can be found without breaking into any locked property; some of the smaller boats at the docks might be transformed into carts without much difficulty. But you have authorisation to break into any locked building on the Harlond, if we run out of other options."

"Aye, My Lord." Rađobard saluted and made his departure.

As the three Rangers, several other workers and I were hauling flour sacks out of the warehouse and stacking them in one of the last waiting carts, Buslai Son of Brynjolf exclaimed cheerfully to the company in general, "Valar, it will be good to feel City streets beneath my feet again! What do you think you'll you do first when we get to Minas Tirith? If the Enemy ever lets us have a moment off-duty," he added.

Finn Son of Thorstein paused a moment with a wistful smile, before heaving the next sack up to Buslai where he stood in the cart. "I don't know," said Finn. "Simbelmynë and the boys won't be there, I suppose; they'll have headed south in the evacuation – or, I _hope_ they won't be there. I'll have a few words with her if she's been stubborn enough to remain in the City with Mordor on the march toward us." He smiled and shook his head, then went on, "I'll go see Telemnar the Baker, down the street, I suppose; get the latest gossip of the Second Level and have one of his cheese and onion pasties. What will you do?" Finn asked Buslai in turn.

"Go see my father," Buslai said. "If he's not let himself be talked into leaving, but I'm sure he'll not have. He'll be planning on knocking out a few Orcs' brains with his cane, knowing him." Buslai grinned. "This time _I'll_ have some good Lord Boromir stories to tell _him_, for a change. Sir," he went on, turning to me while he stood there with a massive sack of flour over each arm, "if it's not too much trouble, some time when you're not busy, my father would be ecstatic if you'd come visit him. I know he'll have been grieving over the reports of your death. Seeing you alive would mean more to him than anything else in the world."

I thought that there was one thing, at least, which would likely mean more to him, and that was seeing his own son alive. But I said, "I'd be happy to visit him. I'll tell him of your heroic adventures, Buslai, so he can have some new exploits of which to brag to the neighbours."

Buslai blushed, and quickly turned to heave the sacks onto a half-completed stack. "You don't have to do that, really, My Lord," he said. "The neighbours probably bolt their doors and hide from him whenever he starts talking of me, already."

I laughed at that, and asked Captain Cirion as I turned to grab another flour sack, "What of you, Captain? What will your first actions be when we're off-duty in the City?"

"I'll have a drink," Cirion said succinctly. "Or several. Which reminds me," he added. "Will you give me leave for a few minutes, My Lord? I have another duty to accomplish here in Waterfront."

"Leave granted," I told him.

We stacked the cart perilously high, until we finally had to admit that any more sacks would just tumble off it along the way to the City. I sent Buslai on a reconnaissance patrol around the docks, to see if any more empty carts were available, and the rest of us sat down on heaped-up flour sacks for a few moments' break.

Just as I was about to decree that we had rested long enough and we should go find out what other useful work might be done, Cirion returned, along with Ivarr, Nikolai the bartender, and another young Man whom I recognised as working at the Orc's Head. The Ranger carried a bottle and two goblets, Ivarr was lugging a large barrel clutched to his chest, and Nikolai and the other Man both pushed wheelbarrows, laden with two more barrels and all manner of victuals and crockery.

Ivarr set his barrel down on the dock before us, and he and his two workers commenced piling a pie, several roast fowl, a few legs of mutton and an enormous round of cheese on top of the barrel. Adding some tankards to the improvised table, Ivarr held forth in his booming tones, "Help yourselves, gentlemen, compliments of the Orc's Head. There is much that we'll not have the time to move to the City, and I'd rather our Men got the benefit of it, than those damned hounds of Mordor."

The Men gave three cheers for Ivarr and his bounty, and clustered about the barrel. Nikolai and his comrade set out again with their still overflowing wheelbarrows, but Ivarr remained to tap the barrel himself and to fill the tankards.

"Best Tumladen ale," he declared, as he handed the tankards around. "Here's health and strong arms to us and confusion to the Enemy!"

Cirion, meanwhile, had unstoppered his bottle, which I saw was a respectably aged Calenhad whisky. He poured into one of the goblets he had brought, and handed it to me.

"Cheers, My Lord," he said. "I remembered that I owe you a drink. We said at Lilla Howe that the one who took longer swimming through the flood owed the other a drink in Minas Tirith."

I smiled and accepted the proffered goblet. "We're not in Minas Tirith yet," I pointed out.

"True," he nodded, pouring a drink for himself. "But I figured, better take the chance while we can. I'd hate to get slain before paying off my bets."

Cirion, ever the practical old campaigner, re-stoppered the whisky bottle and stashed it in the satchel he wore at his belt. Then we raised our glasses.

"Gondor," I said.

"Gondor," he repeated. We drank, draining the goblets in one shot.

"Well," observed Ivarr the innkeeper, with a smile of grim satisfaction, "that is one bottle at least the Orcs will not get their muzzles on. See that you don't get killed," he added to Cirion. "That's expensive stuff; I don't want them plundering it off your corpse."

"I'll do my best," Cirion answered dryly.

I put my goblet down on the barrel and tore a chunk off one of the legs of mutton. While I was munching on it, Ivarr said, "I believe we have run out of carts again. While we're waiting, My Lord, I'd be obliged if you'd stop by the Orc's Head. There's something I think you might wish to see."

I asked with a bemused smile, "You don't owe me a drink as well, do you?"

"Not that I know of," the innkeeper answered. "And I'm not trying to dun you for payment either, My Lord; your latest tab was paid promptly as usual."

"Good thing, too," said I, "since I currently have not tuppence to my name."

Ivarr and I set out along the familiar alleyways leading to the Orc's Head. The severed head on the garishly-painted tavern sign greeted us with its usual impotent glare, one visible eye scowling out from a mask of blood.

I wondered if that sign would fill the foe with extra malice toward Ivarr's tavern, when they came to occupy Waterfront. Or whether they would be so hell-bent on general destruction, that one painting of a slain Orc would make no difference to them.

The common room of the Orc's Head, illumined only by the dusky light that crept through the windows, had a melancholy look about it. Robbed of its benches and tables and with none of the patrons who normally propped up the bar at all hours, the tavern seemed only the faintest ghost of itself.

Ivarr heaved a sigh, loud and hollow in the unaccustomed silence.

"Well," he said. "It may still be that we'll all meet again. The Nameless One has not beat us yet."

"He has not," I agreed firmly. "And if the tavern is lost, we will build you another on its ashes. You will call time at the bar here again, that I promise you."

"Aye, well," Ivarr said gruffly, "perhaps the Southrons will drink so deep of my cellars, they'll have too vile a headache for them to besiege Minas Tirith."

"You could poison the kegs," I suggested, "only then they'd be of no use to us when we return here for our victory celebration."

The innkeeper drew forth his handkerchief and blew his nose, then he strode over to the bar. I followed, smiling as I was able to discern in the faint light the small, gold-lettered plaque on the back wall that read "Purveyors of Fine Ales, Wines and Spirits, By Appointment to His Grace the Captain-General of Gondor".

Ivarr said, as he walked behind the bar, "You have many friends here, My Lord. We may not be Citadel or garrison, but tears were shed and glasses drained in your honour when word of your loss reached us."

"I could wish for no better monument, Ivarr," I told him quietly.

He paused, then turned to light one of the lamps that hung above the bar. "Aye, well," he went on, "speaking of monuments. Everyone wanted to leave some record that they remembered you, and there were many of our people here who did not feel it their place to write in condolence to the Lord Steward, or leave any token of remembrance at your house or at the Citadel. So they left what token they could, here. It isn't much, My Lord. Everyone wished they could do more. But all gave from the love and fealty in their hearts."

With a strange expression half of embarrassment and half of pride, he nodded his head toward an assortment of items piled at one end of the bar.

"Good heavens," I whispered, as I followed his glance. I walked to the end of the bar for a closer look. As I gazed, I felt my throat constrict in a mixture of gratitude, amazement, and regret – regret that my passing had caused such grief, to people whom in most cases I barely knew, and whom I'd likely not recognise if I ran into them at any place other than Ivarr's tavern.

"Valar," I whispered. "Oh, Valar."

On the heavy square pillar at the end of the bar hung one of the little portraits of me that could be purchased at every other stall in the marketplace of Minas Tirith, painted in the hundreds every year for the tourists from Lossarnach and Lebennin, Lamedon and Dol Amroth. Painted on wood or leather, some with a reasonable resemblance to their subject and some identifiable only by the name in gold paint blazoned at the bottom, the portraits of me were available by the cartload, along with paintings of my father, my brother, the White Tower of Ecthelion, Mount Mindolluin, and the Court of the Fountain.

This one, about six inches tall and painted on wood, had, I thought, a closer resemblance to me than most that I had seen. And beneath it on the bar were two sealed whisky bottles and one of White Tree wine, a pile of coins, a bouquet of dried flowers, an arrow, two daggers, a couple of cloak clasps and a jewelled belt buckle, a flowered hair ribbon, a small silver ring, a miniature Horn of Gondor on a chain, such as can be bought in the same market stalls as the souvenir paintings, and a child's cloth doll, of a black-haired Man clad in a tunic of black and silver.

I carefully picked up the doll, touching a finger to its black yarn hair. "Who gave the doll?" I asked, feeling torn between laughter and tears.

"That was Melilot," Ivarr said, naming his youngest daughter of seven years or thereabouts. "She got her mother to help her make it. I'm not sure that you can tell, My Lord, but it's meant to be your father. Melilot said –" he stopped to clear his throat, then he went on quietly, "she said that if you'd gone beyond the Spheres of the World, you must be missing your father, so she wanted to give you that doll to keep you company."

"Valar," I whispered again. "Valar, Ivarr. I don't know what to say."

As I gently set the doll back on the bar I managed a smile, albeit a rather shaky one. "I suppose," I said, struggling to keep some lightness in my tone, "if there's any place where it's acceptable for a Man to break down in tears, then standing at a bar is that place."

Ivarr gave a gruff bark of a laugh. "It would not be the first time this bar has witnessed tears, My Lord, that much is certain." He cleared his throat once more. "I don't know what you'd prefer done with all this, My Lord … it's yours, of course, if you wish it, or we can keep it here – but I'll take it with me to the City when we leave; that is, unless you want to take it with you. I'll not leave it to be despoiled by – those who will be here when we are gone."

"Thank you, Ivarr," I told him. "I'd be honoured if you would keep it. Of course people may want their gifts back, now that I'm not dead. But if they don't, then the Orc's Head is where all of this belongs. Although," the thought occurred to me, "do you think Melilot will be hurt if I don't keep the doll?"

"I don't know, My Lord," he said. "You can ask her when they come home."

He located a satchel hanging from a peg on the wall, and started carefully loading it with the portrait and the gifts. After a moment's thought, he took the "By Appointment to the Captain-General" plaque from the wall and placed it in the satchel, as well.

As Ivarr put out the lamp and we turned to head for the door, a slight, shortish figure barrelled inside. In the dim light, it took me a moment to recognise the Merchant Adventurer's son, Boromir Son of Rađobard.

"My Lord!" the youth cried. "Begging your pardon, My Lord. My father – I mean, Master Rađobard requests your presence in all haste, at the northmost warehouse."

Voices raised in anger reached our ears as soon as we stepped out the door of the Orc's Head. Young Boromir set out down the alleyway at a dead run, and Ivarr and I sped after him, although Ivarr's progress was hampered somewhat by his care not to jolt too badly the satchel he held in his arms.

The boy skidded to a halt as we emerged from the alley, and I barely avoided running into him. Before us stood a three storey warehouse bearing above its doors the banner of the Weavers and Tailors' Guild. Drawn up to the open door were a large cart and one of the elaborate canopied wains that the guildleaders ride in their ceremonial processions. And between the warehouse and the alley stood two lines of Men, ranged against each other as though facing off for battle.

With their backs to the warehouse were the Weavers' and Tailors' guildleader Minastan Son of Arasstuil and a dozen or so of his guildsmen. Facing them stood a band of about an equal number, including Rađobard, several of his guildsmen, and three of my own comrades: Buslai, Holgar, and Svip. Swords were drawn on both sides, and I saw that Svip had his crossbow cocked and aimed at Guildleader Minastan's heart.

"Hold!" I bellowed, striding up to the combatants. I glowered from Minastan to Rađobard and back again, then yelled, "What the hell do you think you're doing? Have we not enough enemies, that we must run about slitting each other's throats?"

"My Lord," the guildleaders said. Both bowed. Minastan's face, I observed, was turning an intriguing shade of crimson.

"Put up your swords! Now!" As the Men on both sides reluctantly obeyed, and Svip lowered his crossbow, I scowled again from one guildleader to the other. The two still eyed each other as though their dearest wish were to get their fingers about the other Man's throat.

I snapped, "I trust one of you intends to give me an explanation of this?"

Minastan jumped in, "My Lord, Master Rađobard set his rabble to assault my guildsmen. His Men attempted to seize our horses and wagons, and when we denied them, they drew swords upon us."

Rađobard shot back, "My dear sir, I informed you civilly of Lord Boromir's decree authorising the seizure of property, and requested that you and your Men bring your wagons to the Great North Warehouse and assist us there. You saw fit to berate me in unrepeatable terms, and one of your guildsmen took it upon himself to strike a Merchant Adventurer in the face. You and your Men are in defiance of Lord Boromir's decree and are standing against the welfare of Minas Tirith!"

"Enough," I said. "Minastan, may I inquire why none of your Men have been here before now to aid in emptying the warehouses?"

"That is why we are here now, My Lord," the guildleader replied. "Up until now our Men have been assisting with unloading the carts in Minas Tirith. Some of our guildsmen still labour at that, and we have come now to empty our warehouse, as the Lord your father decreed."

"I do not believe that the Lord my father decreed each guild should empty its own warehouse. He decreed that supplies crucial to the survival of our City be moved, in as large amounts as possible. I would be much surprised, Master Minastan, if the Lord Steward considers yards of silk to be among our crucial supplies."

Off to my right, one of Rađobard's Men jeered, "Mayhap they mean to smother the enemy in fabric," and another chortled, "Bless them, lads, they just want to make sure we're dressed better than the enemy!"

Several replies from the Weavers and Tailors died as Minastan glared his Men into silence. He turned back to me and said stiffly, "I ask your pardon, My Lord, if I have misinterpreted the Lord Steward's decree."

"You are pardoned," I said. "I regret the necessity of leaving your stockpile at the mercy of the enemy. If you had acted days ago when the threat first became known, perhaps that necessity might have been averted."

Minastan bowed again, looking as though he'd swallowed something decidedly unpleasant. I continued, "Now, Master Minastan, you will be good enough to move your vehicles to the door of the Great North Warehouse. Since you have, as you say, Men working in the City to fill your guild's quota, you and your Men may return to the City if you choose. But your horses and wagons remain. Or you may remain here and help to move the supplies that may save Minas Tirith."

"Aye, My Lord," Minastan answered bitterly. "We will stay, of course."

Two of Minastan's Men walked over to take hold of the horses' bridles and lead them and the wagons they pulled toward the main dockside street of Waterfront. Their fellow guildmembers fell into step behind the wagons.

The Merchant Adventurers and their allies stepped aside to make room for the Weavers and Tailors' procession. Only my presence, I am sure, kept the two parties' tongues in check as the Weavers and Tailors stalked scowlingly past.

We watched until the last of them passed out of sight. Then I said to the remaining faction, "Perhaps we can return to work. And you'll all oblige me if we don't kill anyone until we encounter the enemy."

Various sheepish replies along the lines of "Aye, My Lord" answered me, as the Men betook themselves back toward the Harlond's main warehouse district.

"My Lord, I do beg your pardon –" Master Rađobard began.

"It doesn't matter," I assured him. "Just see that it doesn't happen again. I don't want to be the one explaining a load of dead guildsmen to my father."

Rađobard grinned and bowed. "Yes, My Lord."

Ivarr the innkeeper shook his head and remarked, without much sympathy in his tone, "Poor Master Minastan. He'll not be elected guildleader next year, now that he has failed to save his guild's stock."

I observed grimly, "He'd not be elected once it became known that he'd incurred the wrath of the Captain-General, either. No one wants a guildleader whose every bill may be blocked in Council the moment he brings it." Not that I'd ever had the time or inclination to target a particular guildleader and block all of his bills in Council; I was never in the City long enough at a time to really pull that off, even had I wanted to. But it had always made a valuable threat.

One by one, Ivarr, Rađobard and their guildsmen departed, leaving only the two Rangers, Svip, and me. Svip was staring at his feet.

I knelt beside him. "Svip," I said. "Do me a favour. Whatever you see the Men around you doing, don't kill any Men of Minas Tirith. Save your shots for the enemy."

"I'm sorry," Svip whispered.

"I know," I told him. "It's not your fault. You haven't been around us for that long; it's only natural that you'd do what you see others doing. But sometimes Men fight those that we should not. To be on the safe side, only fire at Orcs and people trying to kill you."

Svip nodded and put away his crossbow bolt. I stood, eyeing the abashed-looking Buslai and Holgar.

"As for you gentlemen," I said, "in the future I suggest you try to break up this sort of fight between civilians. And if that is not possible, at least do not take sides in it yourselves."

"Yes, My Lord," the Rangers chorused.

I had to grin at their hangdog expressions. "I'm not blaming you," I said. "Those Tailors do need a good arse-kicking. But it's not your job to do it. You're just lucky that Captain Cirion wasn't here to witness this."

"Yes, Sir!" Holgar said emphatically.

Buslai shuddered. "You've got that right, My Lord," he said, lifting his eyes skyward.

In record time, the Weavers' and Tailors' cart and wain left for Minas Tirith, loaded to overflowing with bags of grain and flour. If a few of the other guildsmen were overzealous in loading Master Minastan's wain and managed to tear off most of its velvet canopy, I made sure that I was looking the other way when it happened.

Two of the Weavers and Tailors left to drive their vehicles to the City. But Minastan and the rest of his Men remained, working in grim silence to stack the rest of the flour supplies at the warehouse door in waiting for any empty carts.

Providing those carts became the work of increasing numbers of us, as the afternoon crept on. Whether we had any pretension to carpentry skills or no, all of us worked in the main square before the Harlond Gate, hammering planks together and rigging axles and wheels onto anything vaguely cart-like, including all four of the _Eärendil_'s dinghies, six fishermen's boats, and the twelve four-poster beds lugged downstairs from the guest rooms of the Orc's Head.

It was a task of some difficulty to convince the horses in the stables of the Harlond Garrison to pull these outlandish constructions. The majority of the horses stabled there were not draughthorses at any rate, and would have objected to drawing any cart, let alone the poorly balanced and awkward efforts we had created.

I wished that we had Men of the Rohirrim among us to persuade the horses – although knowing them, the Rohirrim might cause as much trouble as the horses, in complaining that such noble steeds were never meant to draw makeshift wagons cobbled together out of beds.

Gladly I left others to the task of sweet-talking the horses, although it did occur to me to wonder if we'd have horses enough left on which to make our retreat, when we finally came to abandon this operation.

It did not matter, I told myself. We would get all of our Men out of here, if we had to set three Men on each horse, and if the last batch of wagons had to have more Men piled into them than supplies.

Each time one of our existing vehicles returned, most of us left off cart-building. We would unload the wheels and hardware sent to us by the Carters and Wheelwrights in the City, and in exchange would throw in as many provisions from the warehouses as the cart could hold. Then the driver and his long-suffering horse would set forth once more, and we would hurl ourselves back into our carpentry efforts.

The face of Master Athelhelm the Carter bore an increasingly aggrieved expression with each new monstrosity we created. He declared, with vigour, that none of these patchwork affairs deserved the name of cart.

"They'll be famed in generations to come," Ivarr the innkeeper announced grandiloquently, in response to one of Athelhelm's despairing groans. "In future days, Men will sing of our great struggle. All in Gondor will know the Ballad of the Cart With Four Unmatched Wheels That Was Made Out of Ivarr Son of Yngvar's Bed."

Athelhelm snorted. "I hope they will sing of the bonfire I'll make of these travesties, when the war is over and our _good_ carts come home to Minas Tirith."

As Ivarr opened his mouth to make some riposte, a trumpet call rang out from our guards upon the wall: the call that signalled an enemy advance.

"Bloody hell," I groaned. I leapt to my feet, abandoning the axle clamp that I'd been hammering onto the sawn-down leg of one of Ivarr's beds.

I stared into the dusk, across the River. There seemed to be no movement yet upon Anduin's edge. But as I fought to see through the dark, I thought I could indeed see motion beyond, in the shadows of the far shore.

It looked for a moment as though the dark horizon itself was in motion, as a line of Men or something else advanced steadily toward the riverbank. And as I stared, I saw to the southern extent of their line three larger forms, massive dark shapes as though three many-storied buildings had grown legs, risen from their foundations and were lumbering now toward us.

"My Lord!" A young Ranger of Cirion's command raced up to me and saluted. "Sir, report from the wall. Troops observed across the River. We estimate five hundred of them, approaching the riverbank. There seem to be more beyond, but we cannot be sure, or give any reckoning of them. Also five _mûmakil_ observed, three in the front line and two further back. The troops appear to be Men. We have not seen any Orcs in the front line; further back, it is too dark to be sure."

"Thank you," I told him. I looked swiftly about, at the tense, expectant faces of the Men around me.

Svip, who had been clambering around with a hammer making sure that all nails in our constructions were properly pounded home, jumped down from one skeletal cart and hurried to my side.

All about us were strewn the makings of partly finished carts. I saw the structures of ten vehicles, at a glance, only two of which looked particularly near to completion.

"Athelhelm, Ivarr," I commanded, "report. Where do we stand with these carts? What is the status of the warehouses?"

Athelhelm scowled at the scattered cart pieces. "With the numbers we have, it will be an hour before all of these carts here are completed. Then there should be …" he paused for a moment in calculation, "at least a dozen carts that we can expect to be on their way back to us from the City."

Ivarr put in, "The North and South Warehouses are fairly well emptied, My Lord, but we have made no inroads into the warehouse of the Harlond Garrison. If you authorise the potential use of the army's supplies for the City, they could be valuable indeed. The Garrison storehouse holds much dried foodstuffs, that would serve us well in case of a siege."

I nodded. "Very well. We will divide our efforts. Set all civilians to completing these carts and loading each as it becomes ready, with the supplies from the Garrison storehouse. Once each cart is filled, let it depart for the City. Make no return trips, and do not begin work on any carts beyond these.

"Captain Cirion, we will divide our Men between the wall and the riverfront. I want another twenty sent to the wall; give my order that the catapults be brought to bear upon the enemy. The rest of us will seek cover dockside, and add our fire to that from the wall. All catapult crews and archers may fire at will. Have particular care of the _mûmakil_, and let none reach our shore. They may be carrying explosives, as they did at the Causeway. Above all else, we must hold their forces from crossing the River until the carts have gone."

"Aye, My Lord."

As Men scattered to obey my orders, I scowled again briefly at the shadowy host beyond the water. For a moment I wondered if I would not do better just to order Waterfront abandoned now, and give up all thought of saving any further supplies.

_At least_, I thought, _I may do something to improve our odds_.

I turned back to the guildleaders, who had already thrown themselves back at the ramshackle cart pieces around us.

I commanded, "Get me paper, pen and ink."

"Boromir," Master Rađobard said, startling me for an instant until I connected that he was speaking to his son. "Run and get my writing desk. It's in my saddlebag."

The boy scrambled to his feet and ran for the gate. While awaiting his return, I lent my aid to Rađobard in fitting wheels to the axle he'd just attached to the last of the _Eärendil_'s dinghies.

Ere long, young Boromir Son of Rađobard raced back to us, a gleaming culumalda wood travellers' desk clutched in his arms.

"Give me that," Rađobard ordered impatiently, as the boy fumbled to open the desk. After a few moments longer of Rađobard struggling with the latch, the desk sprang open. The guildleader rummaged within it, digging out a bottle of ink, a golden pen, and a sheaf of paper, all of which he thrust at his son. "Give those to Lord Boromir. Hurry!"

The boy cast me a panicked look, as he struggled not to drop the stationary his father was piling on him.

"I'll use the desk too, if you don't mind," I said. "And if you've sealing wax in there, I'd be obliged if you'd get it ready."

"Of course, My Lord," Rađobard replied, scowling at his harried son. It needed only a slight bit more juggling of desk, paper and writing supplies before I was sat upon the dock, the writing desk resting on my knees and an empty sheet of paper before me.

Svip, hovering nervously beside me, asked, "Where do you want me to go? Can I go to the riverfront with the others?"

"Wait for me," I told him. "I'll take up position at the riverfront; I want you to stay with me."

Young Boromir set to preparing the sealing wax from his father's desk, Rađobard hastened back to his boat-cart, and Svip scurried to hammer in a few more nails. For a blank instant I stared at the waiting paper. Then I set to writing.

At the top of the sheet I scrawled, "_In Haste._" I launched into a much-abbreviated salutation:

"_My Noble Lord and Father: _

_"I have reached the Harlond with the Rangers of Captain Cirion's Company and the milecastle garrisons from the Causeway to the Harlond Gate. Since early this morning__, we have assisted with the effort to move supplies to Minas Tirith._

_"Within the last minutes we have observed enemy troops massing on the eastern shore. They appear to__ be Men, and they have several _mûmakil _which they may intend using to aid them in crossing the River._

_"We will hold the foe from crossing for as long as may be, and attempt to load and move out all the carts available to us. I beg, if we have any troops that can be spared from guarding the City, send them here. Every minute that we hold the enemy back__, will secure more provisions for our people._

_"Your Devoted Son, Boromir."_

Omitting all other standard formalities, I folded the letter, grabbed the stick of sealing wax from young Boromir, and jammed my signet ring down into the dollop of wax. As I wrote "_To the Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor_" on the letter's other side, I called, "Rađobard, Ivarr: which of your Men is the swiftest rider?"

"I am, My Lord," Boromir Son of Rađobard piped up, immediately blushing as all around turned to look at him.

"It is true, My Lord," his father said, getting up from the cart on which he'd been working to stand beside his son. "He has skill with horses, though I say it who shouldn't. And he is light enough that he will not slow the horse down."

"I won the horse race at the last Yuletide festival, My Lord," young Boromir added.

I put aside the writing desk and stood up in my turn. "Very well," I said. "Take this letter, and ride with all speed for Minas Tirith. Deliver the letter into the hands of the Lord Steward himself; you are to give it to none but him. He may yet be uncertain as to whether my survival is truth, or merely a rumour that many wish to believe. If he asks you, you can tell him that you yourself have seen me alive." I smiled at the boy, who seemed unsure whether to be delighted or terrified. "You don't need to worry," I told him. "The Lord Steward is probably not going to eat you."

"Yes, My Lord," he said, straightening up and trying to look as though he had no thought of being afraid.

I said, "Master Rađobard, you may accompany your son to the stables and assist him in his departure." As Rađobard and his son bowed to me, I added, "Mark me in this, young Man. You are not to return here once your mission is completed. That is a command. Remain in the City; there is much you can do to be of use, without returning to add to the number of Men that we must get out of here in time. Every Man who reaches Minas Tirith alive is a victory to us, and they are victories that I intend to keep."

"Yes, My Lord," he said again.

Rađobard put his arm around the boy's shoulders, speaking to him in quiet tones as they turned and hastened for the gate.

"Svip," I called. "Ready to go?"

Svip scampered from the cart, set down his hammer, and pulled his crossbow from where he had jammed it in his belt.

I said, "This time I think we'll have people that you can shoot."

Svip smiled up at me. "Good."

I scanned the riverfront. Our Men had already scattered along the dockside, finding for themselves relatively sheltered vantage points. There were archers crouched behind bollards on the jetties, behind empty barrels and crates that had been discarded in moving the supplies, and at the corners of the brightly-painted Customs House that would normally be occupied by the Harlond's Harbour Master.

Large in my view, as I sought a favourable position, stood the graceful form of the _Eärendil_, Rađobard's unfortunate ship.

I asked Svip, "Is there any deck left on the ship?"

"Oh, yes," he nodded. "Rađobard said he wanted to leave the ship usable as long as possible."

"Good Man, Rađobard," I murmured. I turned back to the cart builders. "Ivarr," I said, "Svip and I will be on board the _Eärendil_. Get word to me when the last cart is loaded."

"Aye, My Lord!"

"All right then, Svip," I said. "Let us find ourselves a nice rathole up on deck."

I hurried across the dock and up the _Eärendil_'s gangplank, Svip at my heels.

I had cast only a cursory glance or two at the ransacked ship until that moment. Now that I truly looked upon it as we reached the deck, I stopped short, giving a whistle of astonishment.

Rađobard Son of Baldir had made mincemeat of his ship. The superstructures that had graced prow and stern were razed down to the deck. The forecastle with its crew quarters and kitchen, the crew quarters at the stern and Rađobard's airy cabin that had occupied the storey above them, all had vanished as though they had never been.

I remembered the delighted pride with which Rađobard had shown off the _Eärendil_ to me when I dined with him on shipboard five or so years before, when he had first been elected Leader of the Merchant Adventurers' Guild.

I thought, _Poor Rađobard. Tearing apart his ship must have felt to him like ripping out a piece of his flesh_.

The planks from the centre of the deck had been torn out as well, leaving a perimeter of several planks around the deck's edge so that one could manoeuvre about the ship without needing to leap from one crossbeam to the next.

Several Men had already found themselves vantage points crouched along the starboard gunwale, looking out over the River. As yet there was nothing at which to fire, the enemy still too far back in their shadows. The Men turned and nodded or bowed to us as Svip and I made our way around the ravaged deck.

We took up position near the stern, at a point where the gunwale was at the right height for Svip to be able to set his crossbow atop it and fire with ease. If I knelt and turned my longbow horizontally to fire, I thought, I should be well enough protected to make it a reasonable spot for us to take our stand.

Now, once again, we had only to wait for the enemy's move.

Only this time, I was certain, we would not have as long to wait as I could wish for.

It would be half an hour, I reckoned, before young Boromir reached Minas Tirith. I thought, _Give another fifteen minutes for him to reach the Citadel, and to convince the various guards and attendants that he should indeed be admitted to the Lord Steward's presence … say fifteen minutes again for troops to be assembled and to set out from the City, and half an hour once more for their ride to the Harlond_ …

Even in the best eventuality, with no unlooked-for complications such as the boy's horse throwing a shoe, the guards refusing to admit him to my father, my father suspecting the letter to be a forgery – it was an hour and a half before we could hope to see any reinforcement from Minas Tirith.

Svip hissed in my ear, "I can see two Men by the shore. Do you see them yet? I think they're crawling down to the waterline. They must be scouts."

I scowled in frustration, struggling to pinpoint what Svip had seen. "No," I said. "I can't see them." After another moment of staring into the gloom, a sudden hint of movement caught my eye. "Yes. There."

If Svip had not told me they were two Men, I would not have been certain that I even saw them. They passed in and out of my vision like wraiths of mist.

Svip whispered tensely, "I'm not sure I can shoot far enough to get them."

"Try it anyway," I told him. "I'll follow your aim. Perhaps at least we can put a good fright into them."

I nocked an arrow while Svip loaded and cocked his crossbow. Crouching close to him, I calculated as best I could what his bolt's trajectory would translate into for my own shot.

"Fire at will, Svip," I whispered.

Svip fired. I loosed my arrow an instant later.

I am not convinced that we hit either of the scouts, but I am certain we succeeded in giving them a fright. I thought I heard a distant and hastily silenced shout, and a briefly-seen flurry of movement seemed to correspond with the two of them scrambling back up the bank again.

A command was shouted on the Rammas behind us, and a round of arrows burst from the line of defenders along the wall. Answering shouts sounded across the River. I could not be sure, but it looked as though a line of Men at the crest of the gently-sloping riverbank moved back a few paces, raising their shields against the barrage of arrows.

"We need more light," I muttered. In the day's false dusk I had lost track entirely of what hour it might be. But if the rapidly thickening dark could be believed, we were heading in to evening once again.

I ordered one of Cirion's Rangers, crouching along the gunwale to my right, "Go to the officer commanding the wall. Give my order that the catapult crews fire burning shot, that we may see what those fellows are up to."

"Aye, My Lord!"

An hour, Athelhelm had said it would be, before the carts were completed. As that hour drew onward, we fired, in the light of the flames that our catapults spewed forth. We fired at the line of Men ranged against us on Anduin's shore, who sent back at us volley upon volley.

Few of their arrows told. They skidded along the dock, broke against the Rammas wall, and stuck harmlessly in the timber of Rađobard's ship.

The darkness must be hampering them even as it did us, granting little chance to hit our defenders in the precise instant when they shifted from cover to take each shot. And our cartbuilders had hastily shifted their base of operations to behind the South Warehouse, out of sight and range of the enemy archers.

But our arrows, as well, pierced few of their targets. The enemy, with practiced speed, had formed themselves into a shield-wall, shieldmen alternating with archers who fired from the shelter of their comrades' shields.

The fitful firelight showed our foes to be Men of Harad, with the Black Serpent emblem of their king coiling upon each crimson shield. They were too far from us for the details to be seen, but I knew from past clashes that the maw of each painted serpent would be gaping wide, fangs bared for the kill.

It did not matter, I told myself, if our arrows slew any of them here or not. We had only to hold them back from the River crossing, until the last of our carts was safely on its way to Minas Tirith.

The enemy had their own thoughts on that matter. Thrice in that hour, a detachment of them sallied to the water's edge leading one of the vast, armoured _mûmakil_. The gigantic beasts dragged behind them what appeared to be massive sledges loaded with coiled rope, wooden rafts, and other bits of equipment that I could not identify in the brief glimpses I had of them.

Plain enough, they intended building more makeshift bridges such as they had used against us at Osgiliath. Each time, they attempted unloading their rafts, while the main force of our fire seared down upon them. Archers and catapult crews alike, we concentrated our fire upon the _mûmakil's_ minders, until each time the Men gave up the struggle and herded their monstrous charges back out of our range.

As the third such sortie pulled back, amid yells of derision from our side of the River, Svip cried out to me, "Boromir! They're doing something else!"

I paused in nocking an arrow to my bow. "What do you see?" I asked, grimly noting the dread in the water being's gaze.

"They've got more of those – giant animals. Beyond their archers. They're unloading things from them … I think it's catapults. They must be carrying them in two or three pieces … they're setting them up now, outside our range."

"Damn and hell." That was all we needed, for the enemy to match us step for step, and to bombard Waterfront with catapult fire – perhaps literal fire. And if fire should spread through the ship and the warehouses, we would have no hope of holding against them, no matter how many carts we yet hoped to fill.

"Svip," I said suddenly. "You can see the Men with the catapults clearly? Clearly enough to aim at them?"

"Yes, but – but I can't shoot that far! I can barely reach the other shore!"

"That doesn't matter. Our catapults can shoot that far."

I yelled to one of our Men crouching near us. "Escort Svip to the commander of the wall. Relay my command that the catapult crews adjust their fire at Svip's directions. He can see farther than the keenest-sighted Man among us."

As the Man nodded and started at a crouching run toward the gangplank, Svip turned to me with a wild-eyed look. He began, "You –"

His voice faded into silence. Svip shook his head desperately and tried again. "You promise you won't get killed if I leave you?"

I had to smile. Schooling my face back into solemnity, I told him, "I promise I will do my best not to."

My poor friend was still staring at me with an expression of panic. I reached out to him and grasped his hand.

"I'll take every care, Svip. Upon my oath I will. Now will you go to our catapult crews? They'll not be able to target the enemy catapults without your help. Not until it may be too late."

For another moment Svip still stared at me. Then he nodded, as he tightened his grip about my hand. "Right."

Svip let go of my hand and set out racing toward the gangplank, eschewing the planks around the edge of the deck to run straight across the nearest crossbeam. I watched until I saw him run down the gangplank and disappear from sight. Then I turned back to the foe.

_You've had your hour, Athelhelm_, I thought, as I fired once again at the Haradrim shield wall. _You've had your hour and more_. _If you're not done with those carts by now, that is just too bloody bad_.

Impatiently I glanced over my shoulder, expecting already to see one of the guildsmen scrambling up to me to report that the last of the carts was loaded. In that hope, I was disappointed. What I did see, in the light of the torches at the Harlond Gate, was two of our Men pulling open the gate. A horse, Man and cart appeared, moving through the gate with what seemed to me ponderous slowness. As I swore under my breath, I was sure that I could see at least another two carts behind them.

Through the general din I thought that I heard the yelled command of one of the catapult officers. A ball of flame, that I knew to be a boulder wrapped in burning fabric, sailed though the darkness above us and across the River.

Before I could make any try to see if that shot had told, an answering ball of fire blossomed in the dark of the opposite shore. In a shower of sparks and a deafening thunderbolt of sound, the enemy's catapult shot hit the _Eärendil_'s main mast, shearing it in two.

For the first moment there was nothing to be done but try to make oneself as small as possible. The burning shot vanished into the gap in the centre of the Eärendil's dismantled deck. An instant later, with a creaking groan, the shattered mast followed. The ship gave a deathly jolt, and I had no doubt that the catapult shot had cleaved straight through its hull.

"Get off the ship!" I yelled. "Get back to the dock! Now!"

By some miracle, it seemed that none of our Men had been in the path of the shot or the stricken mast. I did not intend to take the chance that we would be as lucky in the next shot. As several Men started their scrambling run around the ship's deck, I made my way over to one who still crouched at the gunwale and was calmly fitting another arrow to his bow.

I clamped my hand down on the archer's shoulder. "You have your orders," I shouted at him. "Leave the ship!"

The Man turned to face me with an embarrassed but rebellious expression. He began, "My Lord …"

I recognised him as the commander of the first milecastle we had reached after leaving the Causeway Forts. And I remembered the joyous cheers with which he and his Men had greeted my return from the dead.

"Listen, Lieutenant," I told him, still in a yell, "I do not intend to leave this ship until you do. So unless you want to be responsible for me getting killed again, I suggest you get out of here now! You can still fire from the dock, now move!"

"Aye, My Lord," he shouted at last. He loosed his arrow toward the enemy, then set out picking his way around the _Eärendil_'s deck.

As I started scrambling after him, I thought I heard new sounds adding themselves to the yelling, the twang of bowshots, and the whirring thud of the catapults' fire.

_Hoofbeats_, I thought. Hoofbeats on cobblestones, distant but clear, as of an entire company of horsemen.

"The reinforcements!" someone yelled. Another voice cried out joyfully, "Here they are, lads! Here they are!"

My stubborn comrade was racing down the gangplank. I paused at the top of it, as I heard shouts of command from the other side of the wall.

Through the embrasures I glimpsed the forms of running Men at either side of the gate, all seeming to appear from the points where the stairs opened onto the ramparts. These newcomers ranged themselves alongside our archers on the wall. The number of arrows flying over our heads was suddenly redoubled.

Further Men ran through the open gate, keeping low and racing to join us behind our battlements of bollards, barrels and crates.

I realised that the Men running toward us wore the livery of the Tower of Guard. There was no mistaking the black surcoats blazoned with the token of the White Tree, or the winged _mithril_ helmets.

The Guards of the Citadel have the defence of the City as their charge, and the only Men with authority to order them outside the City walls were my father and myself. Never in my life had I seen a company of the Guard outside the walls of Minas Tirith. I could scarce credit the evidence of my eyes that told me I saw them now.

The realisation struck me of what the Guards' presence here might mean.

The two captains of the Citadel Guards were the Steward's Heir, and the Steward of Gondor himself. If the Guards were here, I thought, then there was a better than even chance that my father was here, as well.

I ran down the gangplank, then stopped, standing in the shelter of the _Eärendil_'s hull.

As my gaze searched over the crowd of running Men, I heard a light, familiar voice cry out my name.

For another instant I could not see who was calling to me. Then, with the suddenness of a catapult shot, a small figure darted from amid the company and sped across the dock toward me. He moved in a flash of black and silver, and I could scarcely have told how I recognised him. He had certainly not worn the Livery of the Heirs of Elendil or the winged _mithril_ helm the last time we had seen each other.

When last I had seen him, he had been struggling beneath the arm of a massive Orc warrior. And my sight had been fading, as I sank to the leafy earth, grasping at one of the black-feathered arrows impaling my chest.

I dropped to one knee on the Harlond dock, and Peregrin Son of Paladin flung himself into my arms.

He hugged me fiercely, his helmet jabbing my chest as he repeated in a tear-choked voice, "Boromir, I'm so glad. I'm so glad."

I clutched him to me, swallowing back a lump in my throat. "So am I," I whispered.

Before we could speak further, another, very different voice reached us, cutting through the din of combat.

"Boromir!"

A wave of emotions slammed into me. Joy, relief and concern gripped my heart, at the sound of my father's voice.

Pippin drew back from me and stepped away, his gaze shifting swiftly from me, to the Steward of Gondor, and back again.

I stood and took a few paces toward my father. He met me partway and grasped my arms, staring into my face with a wild, desperate gaze.

"Father," I began. But I could not think of a single thing to say. Nothing that would bring him certainty and banish his fears. Nothing that would prove to him that I was truly there, and alive.

It hit me with a shock how very much older he appeared than when I had seen him last. I was sure there was more grey in his hair than before, and his face seemed as waxen and pallid as those of our embalmed ancestors. The skin was drawn taut over his cheekbones. Only his dark, burning eyes seemed the same as I remembered – but I did not recognise the grief and uncertainty that I saw now within them.

His fingers tightened on my arms, clutching at me desperately in the effort to prove my reality.

"My son," he breathed, emotion trembling in his voice. "My son."

And then my father, the Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, pulled me to him and clasped me in his arms.


	14. Chapter Fourteen: Homecoming

Author's Note (April 2003): Hello, all! And thanks so much again to everyone who's reading and reviewing! This chapter somehow ended up being the longest one yet, believe it or not. It's nearly as long as the Council of Elrond, and that's saying something. But at least it took me less than a month to post it … Anyway, read on for the various scenes of Boromir's homecoming, and let me know what you think. Next up, the Battle for Minas Tirith!

_Chapter Fourteen: Homecoming _

My father broke our embrace and took a step back from me. He let go of my arms reluctantly, as though he feared that when he severed our physical contact I would cease to exist.

For another moment he stared as if to devour me with his gaze. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath. He straightened his shoulders and moved his hands to rest upon his belt, reclaiming his customary air of authority.

As I stood there and struggled to think of something to say, the Lord Steward looked me up and down with a critical eye. With an effort I stopped myself from smiling, to avoid having to explain to him what I considered so humorous.

My father's judgemental gaze, I reflected, was all that had been wanting to make my homecoming complete.

I told myself, _Now, that_ _is the father I remember._

"You are not injured?" he inquired briskly.

"Nothing to speak of, sir."

"Good. We must get these Men out of here as swiftly as may be. Saving a few additional crates of dried fruit will hardly be worth the lives of any Men of Gondor sacrificed to secure them."

"That is my belief as well, sir," I said wearily, vowing to stop all impatience from sounding in my voice.

"Then let us have no further delay." He turned and strode toward the South Warehouse, where the three carts that had most recently returned from the City were being loaded by Ivarr and his fellow guildsmen.

I looked over at Pippin and rolled my eyes. Pippin stared at me in astonishment, then he broke into a grin.

"Come along then, Master Peregrin," I told him, "our Lord has spoken." I set out after my father, Pippin hurrying to fall into step beside me.

The evacuation of Waterfront proceeded swiftly, as such operations go. At my father's command, the loading of the three carts ceased – they had, indeed, been close to full at any rate – and the guildsmen piled into the carts themselves or hastened to the stables. The carts pulled through the gate and waited on the road for any who should not prove able to find a place upon a horse.

As soon as all civilians made it through the gate, my father passed on to me the order that our archers should fall back as well. The commands I shouted were obeyed with alacrity, with no pockets of resistance such as that of the milecastle commander on board the _Eärendil_.

_Respected I may be_, I thought with some annoyance, _but_ _I haven't achieved the obedience that my father's presence commands_. _My father would not have had any trouble from that fellow on the ship, I would bet crowns to acorns_.

I told myself, _That difference_ _is because the Men don't fear that you will reduce them to ashes with the disdain of your glance_.

There was a confusion of horses beyond the gate, the steeds of the Citadel Guard milling about with our last remaining horses brought out from the stable. Once again I wished for the aid of the Rohirrim, as far too few of our Men stood, clutching multiple horses' reins, fighting to hold them calm and ready for those of us yet afoot.

I leapt to the saddle of one such steed and looked about for Pippin. He had been just behind me, but I saw no sign of him now.

I demanded of the Man nearest me, a Citadel Guard just swinging himself into the saddle of the next horse, "Have you seen the halfling Peregrin? He was here a moment ago."

"_Ernil i Pheriannath_, My Lord? He is there, on the black steed with Beregond."

Even as I caught sight of the two he pointed out to me, Beregond of the Third Company urged his horse through the crowd toward me. Perched in front of the guardsman, Pippin waved. "Here I am, Boromir!" he called.

Beregond looked a trifle scandalised at Pippin's casual use of my name, but he did not comment. "Good," I yelled back. "I was afraid you'd got trampled."

The Hobbit attempted looking jaunty, but his smile was a bit queasy. "Not yet, anyway," he said.

The two catapult crews remained on the wall until the last moment, when all others were safely ahorseback and ready to depart. It seemed that the crews had done well at keeping their enemy counterparts pinned down; at least few others of their shots made it through to the Harlond besides that which had staved in the _Eärendil_'s hull. During the evacuation, one fiery ball had smashed into the Customs House, setting its roof alight. Another had ended its journey in the water a few metres short of the dock.

"All Men clear of the dock, My Lords!" reported a lieutenant of the Citadel Guard, saluting us as he rode through the gate from one last horseback sweep of the Harlond. "Permission to close the gate?"

"Permission granted," my father replied. The Harlond Gate creaked closed. Over the noise of it the Lord Steward shouted in his best battlefield bellow, such as none had heard from him in a good score of years, "Catapult crews! Abandon the wall!"

I manoeuvred my steed toward the stairs, seeking Svip amid our Men who now leaped from the catapults and started for the stairs at a run. Another fireball from the enemy's catapults slammed into the Rammas wall as they raced down the stairs. It did no damage save to the masonry, but it caused me a dark moment or two while I sought a glimpse of our small green comrade.

At last I saw him. He and one of the catapult commanders were the last two to run from the wall.

"Svip!" I shouted. "Do you want a ride?"

Svip paused on the steps, eyeing the crowd of horses in trepidation. He called back, "Do I have to be on a horse?"

"There should be room for you on one of the carts." I addressed the catapult commander, standing beside Svip. "Will you see to it that Svip gets safely aboard a cart?"

"Of course, My Lord."

"I'll see you at the City, Svip. I want to introduce you to my father."

We set out at the best pace that the three carts could muster, the rest of us matching our speed that no stragglers might be isolated by a strike of the enemy. Even as we rode out along the Harlond Road, the enemy's catapult shots commenced pummelling the Rammas like burning hail. Most shots yet seemed to strike the dock or the wall, but a few made it over the wall, sending horses rearing and grass at the roadside smoking and sizzling.

Our column made it out of range before the shots took any toll. But we had scarce any time left, I knew, before our opponents forded the River. Once on the Harlond, the Rammas wall would cause scant delay for them. If they chose, they could be on our heels before ever we covered the three miles to Minas Tirith.

The three carts at the centre of our procession were surrounded by horsemen on all sides, several of the horses double-burdened. My father rode at the head of the column, and I brought up the rear. Several times I thought I saw my father, in the faint light of the dying day, turn his head to look for me, as if to assure himself that I was still there.

_I should ride up and talk with him_, I told myself. But I felt a leaden reluctance to do so. I had no desire to explain to him how I had died and returned. I had the feeling that he would take me to task for letting myself be slain by a mere dozen or so Orcs, not to mention faffing about in the River for weeks instead of coming straight home. Still less did I wish to recount to him the adventures of the Fellowship. Particularly the presence in the Fellowship of one Aragorn Son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain and self-proclaimed Heir of Isildur.

_Hello, Father, good to see you. Guess what, I just travelled from Imladris to Amon Hen in the company of a Ranger who claims to be the __King, and who expects he can just swan in to Minas Tirith and we'll hand him the crown_.

To be fair, I argued with myself, I did not in fact know what Aragorn expected. He and I had never spoken of it, chiefly because the prospect of the Ranger becoming King made me feel alternately livid with jealousy, and sick to my stomach.

_He would be a fine king_, I insisted mentally, as I had many times before. _He'd be a fine king, and you really don't need to worry about it, because chances are, we'll all be dead or enslaved by Sauron before Aragorn gets to press his claim, anyway_.

I told myself that I needed to do something cheering, like talking with a Hobbit.

I located the black horse of Beregond a few ranks ahead of me, and manoeuvred through the column to ride alongside them.

"I hear you are Prince of the Halflings now, Pippin," I hailed my old travelling companion.

"I am?" Pippin asked.

"_Ernil i Pherriannath_. It means Prince of the Halflings."

Pippin looked comically relieved. "Oh. Good. I was afraid it was something rude." He shook his head. "A lot of people have been calling me that, around the City. There was a story that I'd come to Gondor's rescue with an army of halfling warriors, but I had to tell them that it's only me."

My plan to talk only of cheerful topics had swiftly come to naught, but I supposed that it was better to talk of things that mattered. "How did that come about?" I asked him. "How were you parted from Merry?"

Pippin stared down at the horse's neck. "After the battle at Isengard, I … there was trouble with a flying Black Rider, and we split up to get away from him. Merry went with Strider and the others, and Gandalf took me with him to keep me out of trouble."

I raised my eyebrows at that. "He chose a strange method of doing so, by taking you to a City on the brink of siege."

"Yes, well," Pippin shrugged. "He is a Wizard."

For some minutes, now, I had been eyeing a smudge of red light to our north, where ruddy cloud or smoke broke the monotony of the growing dark. As I glanced in that direction again, I noted Beregond staring at it as well, a grim expression on his face.

"The Pelennor is burning, then?" I asked. "The enemy has made it past the Rammas?"

"Aye, My Lord," Beregond said heavily. Pippin turned around to face him and the two of them shared a worried look. The guardsman visibly took charge of his emotions before asking, "My Lord, have you been told of the Lord Faramir?"

Ice shot through my heart. "Told of him?" I repeated sharply. "Told what?"

Beregond spoke, "The retreat from the Causeway reached the City less than an hour ago. They were harried every step of the way, by enemy troops upon their heels and by the fell riders of the air. But the Lord Faramir held the retreat together until the last. The Lord Steward sent forth the Knights of Prince Imrahil in a sortie, to rescue the retreat and put their pursuers to flight. It was then that our Company received the order to arm and set forth to aid in the evacuation of the Harlond. We were nearly at the Great Gate, on our way out from the City, when we met the Prince Imrahil's forces returning. In his arms before him on his horse, the Prince carried the Lord Faramir, wounded and insensible. I heard the Prince tell your father, My Lord, that he had found Lord Faramir upon the battlefield, stricken by a Black Rider's dart."

"Did you learn anything more of his condition?" I asked, my guts going cold with dread.

"Nothing, My Lord. He was very pale and did not appear to move, but that was all I could tell. We rode forth and did not have any more time to speak with the Prince or his Men."

Joining my dread was now an all-too-familiar feeling of outrage and fury. "My father as well?" I demanded. "He did not remain to learn more of Lord Faramir's condition?"

The guardsman and Pippin were both eyeing me miserably. Beregond said, "He exchanged a sentence or two with Prince Imrahil, ordered that Lord Faramir be taken to the Houses of Healing, and rode forth from the City."

"Hell and damnation," I snarled. "Bloody son of a –"

I bit off my words at the last instant, not quite furious enough to profane my father's name or my grandmother's memory. But it was a near thing.

"Excuse me," I said to Beregond and Pippin. "I must consult with my father."

I urged my horse forward through the column, fighting to calm myself before I confronted the Lord Denethor. Not that it would do much good, I reflected grimly. Even if I started out entirely calm, I was certain to be gibbering with rage by the time our conversation was ended.

The two Guards riding nearest behind my father must have seen the expression on my face. They glanced at each other, and of one accord they slowed the gait of their steeds, to leave a wider space between the Lord Steward and themselves.

"My Lord," I called out, signally failing to keep the anger from my voice. As I rode abreast of him, my father looked over at me. For a moment his face seemed not the face of the father I knew, but instead an unfamiliar mask of doubt and grief. Then that brief impression vanished, to be replaced by his look that said "What do you want now, Boromir? I am very busy".

I demanded, "When did you plan on telling me of Faramir's injury?"

His mouth tightened into a thin line of impatience. But he kept his voice calm as he said, "I intend visiting the Houses of Healing when we return to the City. I presumed that you would wish to accompany me. To have told you earlier would be of no assistance to your brother, and I saw no sense in distressing you with it."

"Distressing me!" I echoed in disbelief. "I am pretty nicely distressed now, thank you."

"Precisely my point."

"Sir," I argued, "if harm has befallen my brother, I have the right to know. And I should appreciate it if the news came from the Lord our Father, rather than from a guardsman who clearly holds Faramir's welfare more closely to his heart than does our father."

The Steward fixed me with a gaze of icy annoyance. "Calm yourself, Boromir," he ordered in freezing tones.

"I am calm, sir," I snapped back at him. I counted to twenty before I spoke again, but the pause did little to bolster the calm of which I boasted.

I tried again. "Did you take the time to learn what is amiss with him?"

Still looking as though this conversation were supremely unimportant to him, my father answered, "Your uncle stated that he found Faramir unconscious upon the field, his shoulder pierced by some dart of Southron or Nazgûl. Perhaps you will explain to me what you would have had me do? It would hardly have aided your brother for me to pester the Prince with further questions."

"It might, sir, have aided him to find his father at his side when he awoke. Though to be sure, the shock might just have killed him."

My father's eyes sparked dangerously for an instant. Then he gave a mocking, bitter little smile. "I am sure his uncle's presence will afford him more comfort than mine would. Do you think me so far sunk into decrepitude, that I must flutter about the Houses of Healing like a wraith while the foes of Gondor march to our very doorstep?"

"I think, My Lord, that we have sufficient Men to hold off those foes, long enough for you to show some concern for your son!"

"And will you tell me what good that would do? Shall I wring my hands weeping for the son I cannot aid, while the son who yet stands upon the battlefield has written entreating my assistance?"

_Damn it_, I thought, _now he's making _me_ responsible for this. He couldn't be bothered with sticking around long enough to learn whether Faramir lived or died. And now it's _my_ fault, because I wrote begging Daddy to come and rescue me_.

I was about to snap out some angry comment to my father, when I again caught sight of an unfamiliar weariness on his face. He looked as though it were he, not I, who had been to the Realms of the Dead and back again – or perhaps, from the look of him, he had not yet fully made it back.

I asked, sorrow and weariness of my own draining my anger as I spoke, "Does it never occur to you, sir, that Faramir might need you more than I do?"

My father sat up straighter in the saddle and cast me a haughty glare. "Faramir is a grown Man, and a warrior of Gondor. I can see no cause to insult him by coddling him as though he were some puling infant."

In an instant, my anger was back again. "It is hardly coddling him to show that you care if he lives or dies!"

"I need no lecture on this subject from you, Boromir. I have some experience in facing the deaths of my sons."

I did not know how he expected me to react to that. He thought that I would get caught up in grief and apologies, perhaps, and let myself be turned from the topic at hand. That, I told myself, was not going to happen. "What has your experience taught you, My Lord?" I demanded. "One might think it would teach you to let your son know that you love him, for if you wait, you may lose your chance to tell him before he is dead!"

The Lord Steward sneered. "It is plain to see that you have sojourned in the lands of the Elves. This is no Elven realm here, where we can wile our days away hugging each other and composing sonnets of love. When this war is over, I will gladly go through the list of people that I love and inform them in detail of my affection. But until then, I believe we have more pressing matters confronting us."

I shot back, "You would have no need to make an appointment to inform Faramir that you love him, if you would occasionally _show_ him that he means something more to you than the dust upon your shoe!"

"Lower your voice," my father ordered.

"You are right, sir," I answered bitterly. "It makes no difference how loudly I speak, since whispered or shouted, you refuse to hear me."

"Boromir," the Steward said, in a tone of weary impatience, "will you tell me what the purpose is of continuing this discussion? We have held this debate for thirty years. We could hold it again every day of our lives without either of us changing the opinions of the other. You have made your stand and I have made mine. Let us leave it there; or, if you choose to continue speaking of this matter, you will be speaking of it to yourself."

_Yes, damn it,_ I thought, _we've argued this for thirty years, and for thirty years you have given me no better answer than "This discussion is ended." _

"Answer me one last question, sir," I said, staring into my father's face and wondering if I would ever truly understand the workings of his mind. "If our places were reversed, if Faramir wrote for help and it were I that Uncle Imrahil bore insensible from the field, would you yet act the same? Would you go to Faramir's aid, and leave me to my fate?"

He met my gaze steadily, his dark eyes unreadable. "Yes," he said. "I would. And that, my son, is the truth. Though you seem to have become as unwilling to believe in my word as your brother is."

With that, he set the spurs to his horse and drew forward, leaving me behind. The two Guards who followed us quickened their pace to keep up with their Lord, carefully not looking at me as they rode past.

I stared after my father open-mouthed for a moment, then I clamped my jaw shut and commenced grinding my teeth. I saw little of our murky surroundings or the horsemen about me as I rode on, fuming.

I thought furiously, _Why did I bother coming home_?

_I should have stayed at Rauros with Svip. We could have passed our days happily collecting trinkets and going swimming, instead of fighting through the Enemy's darkness __just so my father can ignore me and treat me like a child_.

I shook my head then, as much at my own reaction as at my father's behaviour.

_What are you complaining about, Boromir_? I asked myself. _He's always been like this. Did you expect anything different from him, just because you've died and returned_?

_Dying and coming back didn't change _you_, did it? So why did you expect that it would change him_?

But it _had_ changed him, came a sudden contrasting thought. My death had changed him, or something had. I thought of his strained and pallid face, and prayed with a surge of desperate fear, _Let me be able to take that strain away from him. Let my return be all that is needed, to take the pain from his gaze._

Before us in the dusk, there rose at last a wan ghost of my City.

I saw none of the torches that would normally line each rank of the City's walls. On any ordinary night the torches would have greeted us in their hundreds, seeming to gleam out of the night sky as they glowed upon each level of Minas Tirith. We should be able see the City rise from the dark like a glimmering crown.

This night, only a faint wash of light told that the White City stood before us. My father must have ordered the lights in the City dimmed, permitting only the lighting of the torches on the interior of each level's wall, that would not shine out to provide targets for our enemies. That was the order I would have expected him to give, with the City facing attack, but it was not a sight I had ever truly thought to see.

It was not the homecoming that I had imagined. But it was better than any imagining, for at last it was real.

_Minas Tirith yet stands_, I thought.

Though I could barely see it, my City yet stood, and I was home.

"It's beautiful," came a quiet voice at my side.

I looked over to find that Beregond and Pippin had ridden up beside me. I smiled down at Pippin, who had spoken.

"Yes," I answered. "It is."

The Hobbit smiled shyly up at me, and ventured, "Your father's a little bit frightening, isn't he?"

There was a snort of strangled laughter from Beregond, and I chuckled in my turn. "Believe me," I said, "there is no 'a little bit' about it." I thought for a moment, then told him, "But you don't need to be afraid of him, Pippin. He likes you, or he'd never have appointed you his Esquire."

"Do you think so?" Pippin asked frowningly. "Gandalf says it's because he wants to keep his eye on me and find out what I know."

"Well," I agreed, "he probably does. But he likes you as well, or he'd not have appointed you to a station that places you ever at his side. He says he will not suffer any fools about him; he has fools enough to deal with as it is. He has no need of them waiting on him in his chambers, into the bargain."

As I gazed at the pale light of the City, the determination came to me not to wait until the whole of our column reached it. To be sure, we should all stay together, to reduce the risk to each of us should we come under enemy attack. But this close to the Great Gate, I thought that I could take the risk.

I glanced around for the carts, which were a few horses behind us.

"I'm going to ride ahead," I told Pippin and the guardsman. "Ride over to the carts with me first. I want you to meet someone."

We found Svip perched atop a tower of flour sacks, conversing cheerfully with the catapult commander. "Svip," I hailed him. "I'm going to ride ahead to the Houses of Healing in the City. Faramir's been wounded; I'm going to go check on him."

Svip frowned in worry. "Do you want me to come along?" he asked. The Men and Hobbit around us listened in open curiosity to this conversation of Captain-General and water creature.

"Probably better not," I said. "I will want to make all haste, and we don't want you scaring the horse. But you can meet me there when you arrive at the City." I turned to Pippin and Beregond. "I can count on you two to escort Svip to the Houses of Healing, and bring him to me?"

"Yes, My Lord," Beregond said, and Pippin nodded, gazing at Svip in fascination.

"Svip," I went on, "this is Peregrin Son of Paladin, a Hobbit of the Shire, one of my comrades from my journey before I met you. Pippin, this is my friend Svip of Anduin, of the Duinhirrim." I added, thinking that all would have to know the story eventually, "Svip brought me back to life."

There was a slight stir and murmur from the Men within earshot. Wide-eyed, Pippin asked Svip, "Really? You did? That's wonderful! How did you do it?"

I left them with Pippin scrambling from Beregond's horse onto the cart, and Svip commencing to launch into his answer.

As I rode through the ranks, another horseman made his way to my side. "My Lord," called Captain Cirion of the Rangers. "I had the barrels of River water sent to your townhouse, with orders that they must not be meddled with and must be kept for your return."

"Thank you, Cirion," I told him, his words bringing back to my mind the grim question of whether having River water at Minas Tirith would do me any good at all.

I hastened forward until I reached the Steward, in his lordly isolation at the head of our column. "I'm riding ahead, sir," I told him curtly. "I'll see you at the Houses of Healing." Then I spurred on, without giving my father the chance to favour me with a reply.

Within minutes my steed stood before the Great Gate. As the guards at the Gate recognised me, voice after voice took up my name. The cheers that arose from along the wall of Minas Tirith brought a smile to my lips, despite the images of my brother's lifeless face that were playing hauntingly through my mind.

It took longer for the Great Gate to open than it would normally have done, with the numbers of our Men who pressed forward to bow to me in salute or to briefly clasp my hands. But the black iron doors groaned open at last.

As I rode beneath the Gate, the trumpets along the wall rang forth in the fanfare for the Steward's family, bidding me welcome to my home.

It was a strange ride up the shadowed Hill of Guard that evening, more like something from a dream than a scene of waking life.

As ever, I cast a few mental curses at the wisdom of our ancestors that led them to build the Citadel Road as they had, weaving back and forth from southeast to northeast and back as though some drunkard's path up the hill had been copied in the road's creation. To be sure, I knew that should ever the foe make it through the Great Gate and should combat become street-to-street, we would be grateful that there was no straight, un-fortifiable road from the Gate to the Citadel's heights. But until ever that dark day should come, the road's course was a profound annoyance, tripling the time that would be needed to make one's way through the levels of the City.

I had followed the Citadel Road and the tunnels passing through the Keel of the Hill sober and drunk, hale in body, ill, and wounded, alone and with our armies, and at all hours of the day and night. I could most certainly have made my way up that road in my sleep. But no matter how many times I scaled the levels of Minas Tirith, I yet felt a niggling longing for some straight path to the top of the hill.

This time the longing was made all the sharper by the thought of my brother lying in the Houses of Healing a few City Levels above me. But that journey had strangeness in it enough to at least partly distract from my fears.

The evacuation had left the City weirdly stilled, the few noises that sounded on its streets echoing hollowly from one level to the next.

Never in my life have I seen Minas Tirith populated to the extent that its builders intended. There have always been empty houses, some still owned by families that dwell now in Lossarnach or beyond and tended by a few of their servants, others bought by the guilds and turned into warehouses. Others again, usually the smallest and least valuable residences, remain boarded up and empty, tempting playgrounds for the children of the City, against all the strictest warnings of parents and nursemaids.

The oldest citizens claim that they have seen the City's population decline even in their own days. I have thought of it myself, trying to recall if there was noticeable difference between the City I remember from my youth, and that of later days. I could only think of a few houses that I remembered being inhabited. which were now not so. But I did think there were fewer children in Minas Tirith than in the days of my own childhood, as if fewer and fewer of our people were willing to risk bringing a child into our darkening world.

Always the City as I knew it had its empty houses, and its streets empty enough that no one could call to their neighbours in greeting without their voices echoing from the walls. But this evening as I rode through each darkened level, it seemed ghostly in its silence, as though Minas Tirith were already fallen and lived now only as a dream of memory.

The pockets of activity through which I passed, served to throw the City's stillness into even sharper relief. In the First and Second levels with their many guild warehouses, Men toiled at unloading the supplies that we had so laboriously moved out of Waterfront. I saw many that I recognised among the workers, including young Boromir Son of Rađobard, who was just walking out from one of the warehouses as I rode past. The young Man's face lit up like a beacon when I told him that his father was safely on his way home.

"Did you have any trouble reaching the Lord Steward?" I asked the boy, as his fellow workers drew near to get a closer look at the Captain-General who had returned from the dead.

"Nothing too bad, My Lord," he said, blushing as usual. "Only I kept stammering too badly for anyone to know what I was saying, and I had to just wave about the letter with your seal on it until someone realised what it was. I was sent to the Steward himself as soon as they recognised your seal. The Lord Steward said 'Give that to me,' and after he'd read the letter he did take the time to order that I be taken to the kitchens and allowed to take whatever I wanted." Young Boromir grinned ruefully. "Now I don't know whether to eat the mince tartlet they gave me, or save it as a keepsake."

"I should eat it, if I were you," I advised. "I'm sure you will have other exploits, and more permanent souvenirs to keep from them."

Besides the Men working at the warehouses, the others I saw throughout the City were those striving to prepare their homes or businesses for withstanding the siege. Many were outside, hammering boards over windows and doors and taking down banners, awnings, and anything else that might prove an easy target for destruction.

At every level, cheers broke forth as soon as my approach was seen. I smiled, shook hands, and took a moment here and there to reply to the citizens' greetings and questions. Several asked if I had heard of the Lord Faramir's wounding, and when I answered that I was going to see him, they begged that I let him know their hopes and prayers were with him.

A scant way beyond the south door of the Fifth Level tunnel, I rode into a flurry of activity around a building that I knew full well.

The gate to the courtyard of my townhouse stood open. Into the courtyard was creaking one of the ramshackle carts that we had built just hours before. Several Men lay within the cart. More walked just behind, three sets of stretcher-bearers carrying Men swathed in bandages and blankets. Another two Men limped along from the gate of the Sixth Level, supporting each other and striving to keep up with the stretchers.

As the stretcher-bearers caught sight of me one after the other, I knew a moment's concern that in their startlement they would drop their wounded comrades to the paving stones. But they merely froze for a moment, staring at me. Then, as one, they commenced cheering my name. The Men on the stretchers took up the cry, two of them struggling to prop themselves up on their elbows as they cheered. The third, though not managing that much movement, grinned broadly as he gazed upon me.

Before I could muster the words to answer them, another Man hastened through the courtyard gate toward me, almost breaking into a run.

"My Lord!"

Old Gavrilo Son of Gardar, the Seneschal of my household, reached my horse's side more swiftly than I would have thought him still capable of walking. He seized my hand and pressed it to his lips. As he did so, I realised to my astonishment that the old Man was crying. In the torchlight his tears glistened upon his face and shone on my leathern gauntlet like a sprinkling of diamonds.

I gripped his shoulder with my other hand. "Gavrilo," I said. "It's all right. I truly am here."

"My Lord." He relinquished my hand and gazed at me with a wondering smile. Of a sudden, Gavrilo began almost to babble, as I had never heard him do in all of my days.

"They said you were on your way here, My Lord. We heard the reports of the Men returning from the Causeway and from the Harlond, and heard of your letter yesterday, and today, when the Lord Steward rode out to meet you. But still I could not – I did not dare to believe that –"

His words choked on a sob. He seized my hand again in both of his.

"Gavrilo," I repeated, barely trusting the steadiness of my own voice. "I am sorry. I am sorry to have grieved you."

A sudden loud burst of sobbing from the direction of the courtyard gate startled both of us. I was not any the less startled when I saw who was doing the sobbing, for Dame Weltrude, Gavrilo's wife and the mistress of my kitchen, is scarcely more given to tears than is her husband.

Beside Weltrude stood three more of my household: Gavrilo and Weltrude's daughter Sigyn, the upstairs maid, who clutched an armload of blankets, the downstairs maid Bettris, who is Gavrilo and Weltrude's niece, and their youngest nephew Balamir, the esquire of my chamber.

Balamir raced from the gate to join Gavrilo, and the three women followed an instant later. As I grinned and tried to shout reassurances over the general clamour, I had to admire the horse's composure at standing there stoically while surrounded by sobbing, cheering and laughing people whom he must surely presume had taken leave of their senses.

I asked laughingly when I could finally make myself heard, "What catastrophe struck our household, Gavrilo, that none of the women managed to leave in the evacuation?"

"We would not go, My Lord," proudly stated Sigyn, a dark-eyed damsel of eighteen or so, whom I strongly suspected was the cause of the increased number of young Men I'd observed over the last couple of years finding excuses to run errands to my townhouse and then loitering about in kitchen or laundry until Weltrude sent them packing. "There is work aplenty to be done in the City, for those with the courage to remain."

"She is right, My Lord," Sigyn's younger cousin Bettris declared. "Most of the women in the Houses of Healing have stayed, and we're at least as brave as they are." The girl added in sudden worry, "You'll not send us away, will you, sir?"

It was too late to do so, I knew; to send the women outside the walls of the City now would be condemning them to death and worse. But I thought that I probably would not have ordered them to leave in any case. "No," I assured them. "No, I will not."

Gavrilo, having had a few moments to recover himself, had regained control of his voice. He spoke now with almost his usual calm. "My Lord," he said, "I authorised opening the house as an annex for the Houses of Healing. The Healers sought a place to house those whose wounds are less severe, and who are not under the thrall of this cursed dark sleep. They have no certain theory upon the sleep's cause. But on the chance that it may be spread from one victim to the next, they wished those who have not fallen to it, and who do not need constant observation, to be moved farther from the dark sleep's victims. I trust I have done as you would wish, My Lord. When we first made arrangements for opening the house, we did not know of your return …"

"You did well," I assured my Seneschal, gripping his shoulder once more. "You were right to choose as you did. My return should change nothing of this."

"Lord Boromir," another voice hailed me. "Welcome home."

I turned, to see that the two injured Men who'd been walking behind the stretchers had reached my side. The Man who had spoken, I was delighted to realise, was Captain Eradan of Cair Andros, wounded in our retreat from the island fortress.

"Eradan," I greeted him. "It's good to see you. And good to see that you are still awake and walking. There are few left, then, who have not fallen this dark sleep's prey?"

"Very few, My Lord," Eradan answered grimly. "Of those wounded at Osgiliath, the Causeway and on the retreat, I would say three quarters at the least lie in the accursed sleep. A few of our wounded from Cair Andros have fallen to it as well. Those who yet speak, do so only in dreams, and from their words, they must be dreams of horror and despair. Seven have died of it thus far, I was told a few minutes ago when I spoke with the Warden of the Houses."

The Captain cast a troubled look at me and then over at Gavrilo and the others. Reluctantly, he said, "My Lord. Have you been informed that the Lord Faramir may have fallen under this black shadow as well?"

My fists clenched as nauseous dread coursed through me. "No," I answered, sternly fighting down my panic. "I have heard of his wounding, nothing more."

Eradan hurried on, as if to soften the shock of the words he had already spoken. "I have not seen him since he was brought to the Houses, but the Warden told me that they are beginning to fear his condition may be the same as that of the others. They say he has not awakened from the moment Prince Imrahil found him. Yet his wound seems relatively minor; certainly not grave enough to explain why he does not awake."

"I see," I said flatly. "Thank you."

"I am sorry, My Lord. If there is anything at all that I can do to be of help, to Lord Faramir or to you …"

I forced a wan smile onto my face. "I know," I assured him. "Try not to worry, Eradan. Faramir has a thicker skin than some give him credit for. He will pull through this."

"I know it, My Lord," Eradan agreed, with a matching pallid smile.

"Take care of yourself. Your first duty is to regain your own strength. You may need it soon enough, if the siege does not go well for us."

I turned to Gavrilo. "Have some barrels of water arrived for me from Waterfront?"

"They have, My Lord. Four barrels were delivered perhaps five hours ago."

"Good. Have one sent to my quarters in the Citadel. I will stay there tonight."

"Yes, My Lord."

"I am glad to see all of you again. More glad than I can say."

As I urged the horse forward once more, Dame Weltrude called after me, "We are all praying for Lord Faramir, My Lord."

I turned and waved farewell to them, not trusting my voice to answer.

It is scarce a minute's ride from my townhouse to the gate of the Houses of Healing. Leaving the horse for one of the guards at the gate to lead to the Citadel stables, I hastened within.

The alcove just off the main corridor was empty, lacking the clerk usually stationed at the desk there to answer visitors' inquiries. I could hear voices from some of the rooms, but for the moment, the hallway was deserted, a sure sign of the seriousness of our plight.

I hurried around the desk to take a look in the massive book lying open upon it. Here the clerk records the names of those brought to the Houses of Healing, the time and day they were admitted, and the room assigned to them. Scanning the names and notations, I saw that nothing had been written down for that day after late morning, when the clerk's notes spoke of the wounded brought in from the Causeway Forts.

The clerk's pen and ink pot, I noticed, were missing along with the clerk himself. Most likely he had gone to consult with the Healers on those patients most recently admitted, to catch up on his record-keeping. All well and good, I thought, but it was no use to me at this moment. I would just have to locate my brother on my own.

Taking the stairs at a breakneck pace that would normally draw instant complaint from the ever-present Healers' Assistants, I made my way up the two flights to the rooms reserved for the most high-ranking patients.

As I started down the corridor, a flustered-looking young Man rushed from the other direction. A writing desk and an untidy bundle of papers clutched in his arms identified him as the absent clerk.

"My Lord!" he squeaked as we drew nigh each other. He executed an awkward bow. "My Lord, I beg your pardon for leaving my post; there were so many admitted today that I could not keep up with all of their names –"

"What room has the Lord Faramir been taken to?"

"The Vardamir Room, My Lord. In the south hall, second room from the end –"

"I know it," I interrupted him. It would have been no great challenge for me to have guessed the room, since the Elros Tar-Minyatur Room was always reserved for the Lord Steward himself, should he require it, and all other highest-ranking patients were generally assigned to the Vardamir, Tar-Amandil or Tar-Elendil rooms.

"Get back to your post," I ordered. "You do not wish to be absent from it when the Lord Steward visits."

The young Man paled. "Yes, My Lord!" he said in another squeak, and he barrelled down the stairs at an even faster rate than I had taken them.

As the sound of the clerk's running steps faded, the quiet, empty hallway echoing with my footsteps began to send foreboding down my spine.

I assured myself that the emptiness meant only that the Healers and their Assistants were busy in the common rooms downstairs, where they must be housing our soldiers suffering under the dark sleep. But, like the stillness and silence of the City, the Houses' abnormal quiet seem to speak to me of doom, of a day perhaps not long in the future when Minas Tirith would house nothing but memories.

Two Healers' Assistants bustled out from one of the rooms as I passed, and nearly dropped their buckets and bundles of bandages in their surprise at seeing me. I could just about have kissed those two young ladies in my relief at seeing other living beings besides myself. The young women curtsied in reply to my bow, then hurried in the opposite direction, whispering I know not what.

I grinned to myself as I hastened onward, speculating on what they'd have said if they knew what I had been thinking. Not to mention my father's reaction if he were to hear that I was running about behaving inappropriately toward the Healers' Assistants.

At last I reached the Vardamir Room. I knocked cautiously on the door, then, receiving no reply, I opened the door as quietly as I could and stepped within.

Faramir lay on the bed, apparently asleep. His face and hands, about the only portions of him visible, seemed near as pale as the white sheets of the bed. There was a damp cloth on his forehead, and a basin of water on the table at his bedside. And sitting by the table in one of the room's chairs carved with scenes of Númenor, was a Man who looked up as I stepped into the room, and who uttered an oath that would doubtless have shocked the Healers and their Assistants, had they the misfortune to hear it.

Smiling as I crossed toward him, I said, "Really, Uncle, your language."

Uncle Imrahil jumped to his feet. He grinned and shook his head, and demanded, "Boromir, you rapscallion, where in blazes have you been?"

"You do not want to know."

His grin broadened. "I will be damned."

We embraced. Just as every other time that we had met since I reached adulthood, I thought that it still felt strange to be the same height as my uncle, instead of being able to run to him and have him grab me up and swing me about through the air.

"Boromir," Imrahil said, still gripping my arms tightly as he stepped back to look at me. "It rejoices my heart to see you." The grin turned wry as he went on, "We had all but given up hope of even getting back a corpse to which we could pay the proper respects. I cannot tell you how much happier I am to welcome you home in this fashion."

"Thank you, sir," I said, grinning back. One thing at least had not changed while I was away, I thought, and that was my Uncle Imrahil's decidedly quirky sense of humour.

"How is Faramir?" I asked then, all trace of the grin vanishing from my face as I looked over at my motionless brother.

Imrahil sighed grimly. "I wish I knew. He seems little changed from the moment I found him."

The Prince sat down once more and reached to re-wet the cloth that lay on Faramir's forehead. I appropriated the chair at the other side of the bed and carried it to set it down next to my uncle's. I sat, then reached out and took Faramir's hand.

At the touch of his skin, I swore under my breath.

"Valar, Uncle!" I murmured in horrified surprise. "He is burning up."

Imrahil nodded. "The fever came on him as we bore him back to the City. It did not hit him as soon as he was wounded, but it came on swiftly; just as we reached the gate, I realised how hot his skin had become. I can only think it must be the effect of some poison on the arrow. But yet his wound seems clean and shows no sign of infection or poison. I suppose perhaps it may be some spell of the Enemy, just as this sleep of the black shadow of which the Healers are speaking."

As our uncle gently dabbed the wet cloth over Faramir's face, I asked, "What happened to him?"

"As we charged into the ranks of the enemy, I saw Faramir in the press of the fight, holding at bay a mounted champion of Harad. In that duel Faramir was victorious. But even as his foe fell, he was struck by some Southron arrow, and plummeted from his steed.

"My Men and I barely got there in time to save him from death by the Southrons' swords or by the horses' hooves. He was already unconscious when I reached him. I drew forth the dart and bound his wound as best I could, while my Knights held off the foe from us. The Healers cleaned and re-dressed the wound just a few minutes ago, and it still seemed as healthy as ever one could hope. This fever and this sleep do not come from his wound except by some poison or sorcery."

I nodded, rubbing Faramir's hand and hoping that somehow the lower temperature of my skin would do something to cool his. I remembered something that Captain Eradan had told me, and asked, "I have heard that Men under the black shadow are speaking in their sleep. Has he said anything?"

"Very little, thus far. He has called your name a few times. And a few times he has called for your father."

For the next minutes Prince Imrahil and I sat with Faramir, taking turns re-wetting the cloth and trying to cool his burning skin. The fever brought forth no sweat upon him, only a dry, scorching heat. We managed to get him to swallow a little water, Imrahil supporting his shoulders and head while I held the flagon of water to his lips. Imrahil said that he had drunk a bit of water earlier, as well, when the Healers were tending him.

I knew a moment's hope, as my brother swallowed the water, that he would open his eyes and awake. But there was no change in him. Nothing except that a frown passed over his forehead, and he murmured, "Boromir".

In quiet tones, my uncle and I conversed as we watched over Faramir. I told Imrahil briefly of our defence of Waterfront and my meeting with my father. Then I spoke of my fatal battle, my death and my return, and my adventures with Svip along the road to home.

The Prince commented little on my tale. He nodded occasionally, and now and then he smiled at some detail of Svip's encounters with the strange world of Men. But when my words ran down and I fell silent, Imrahil asked me, "Do you recall anything of it? Of being dead?"

I dipped the cloth into the water basin once more, pondering the question. I had wondered about it more than once myself, and had tried to force some trace of memory to the fore. But try as I might, it seemed that there was no memory to answer me.

"I don't think so," I said, as I settled the cloth upon Faramir's forehead again. "There seems to be nothing between the fight at Amon Hen, and then a few memories that must be from when Svip was bringing me back. I seem to have lost at least a minute or two just before I died, as well. Mithrandir told me that I had some conversation with one of my comrades just prior to my death. But I don't remember any of that."

Imrahil nodded. We sat in silence, both of us watching Faramir with troubled gaze and troubled hearts.

Though my uncle did not pursue the question he had asked, I thought I could guess what had been in his mind as he asked it.

I was almost certain that what he wondered most was whether, in death, my mother and I had been reunited.

Perhaps half an hour after I had reached Faramir's room, his next batch of visitors arrived. I had to smile a little at the sight of them, for they were assuredly the most strangely assorted band upon which I'd laid eyes since I was parted from the Fellowship.

First to stride into the room was the Steward Denethor. Imrahil and I got up from our chairs and bowed as he entered the room. The Steward was followed closely by the Warden of the Houses, Pippin, Svip, and, stepping into the room a few moments after the others, Mithrandir. There was no sign of the guardsman Beregond, presumably sent about his regular duties in the Citadel.

Our father paused by the foot of the bed, and studied Faramir with his standard unreadable gaze. It was impossible to tell if he felt concern for his son, annoyance with him for being so careless as to get himself wounded, or simply utter indifference.

At last he crossed to the side of the bed opposite Imrahil and me, and reached down to take Faramir's hand in his. I did see a twinge of emotion from him then, a flash of concern as he felt the burning heat of Faramir's hand.

"How does he fare?" the Steward inquired, his voice calm and cold as he set Faramir's hand down again and turned to address the question both to Imrahil and me and to the Warden.

"As you can see," Imrahil said, striving to keep his voice as emotionless as that of the Lord Steward his brother-in-law. "As he has been since we brought him here. He is fevered and unconscious. The wound itself appears clean and relatively minor, but perhaps the Warden can speak to that."

As the Warden of the Houses delivered his report, confirming the good appearance of Faramir's wound and the unknown cause of his fever, Pippin and Svip both crossed cautiously to Imrahil and me.

Mithrandir stood a ways apart from my father, the Warden and my unconscious brother, as if he sought to avoid awaking the Lord Denethor's wrath by appearing too closely concerned with Faramir's welfare. The Wizard nodded to me with a slight smile, then he turned his gaze back onto my brother. Sorrow and the weight of responsibilities and years seemed carved deep into the Wizard's face, reminding me sharply of those unfamiliar signs of age that I saw now on my father's countenance.

Svip interrupted my contemplations, asking in a whisper, "He hasn't woken up at all yet?"

"No," I answered. "Not yet." I glanced from my two diminutive friends over to my uncle.

"Uncle," I said, "I know you have not yet met Svip of Anduin. Have you been introduced yet to Peregrin Son of Paladin?"

Imrahil smiled as he replied, "Not formally, no; I have not yet had that honour."

The Prince of Dol Amroth knelt down to shake hands with each of them as I performed the introductions, first of Pippin and then of Svip. As he shook hands with Svip, Imrahil said, "Boromir has already told me much about you. It is an honour and a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Svip nodded eagerly. "He's told me about you, too. Do you still build sandcastles?"

"Well," Imrahil said, with a wry glance up at me, "I haven't had the chance to build too many of them recently. Perhaps we will all have the chance to do that, after this war is over."

My father's sharp voice forestalled any further pleasantries. He said, "I have summoned the captains to council in my chambers in one hour's time. We will take council as we dine. All have already been informed, except for those here. Boromir, I have asked Master Svip to attend the council; his services to Gondor should place him in the ranks of our nearest councillors." The Steward paused, then added pointedly to me, "Perhaps that hour will give you the opportunity to clean yourself up and change your clothes."

"Very gladly, sir," I said, too happy at the thought of a bath and some clean clothes to even bother being annoyed at my father's criticism.

Pippin glanced wistfully at Svip and me as we started for the door. My father, catching the glance, said, "You will remain with me, Master Peregrin. I may have need of you."

I looked back from the doorway, at my brother lying motionless and pale as a statue of marble, and at Pippin looking very small and unhappy indeed as he stood surrounded by the great lords, the Healer, and the Wizard. I caught Pippin's eye and gave what I hoped was an encouraging smile. As Svip and I left, Mithrandir was saying, "I would learn more of Lord Faramir's wounding. My Lord Prince, can you describe to me the arrow that struck him?"

No sooner were we out of the room, than Svip asked in worried tones, "Do you think Faramir will be all right?"

"I don't know," I had to answer, as we walked swiftly along the corridor. "Everyone seems confident of his recovery from the wound; there seems little danger from that. But the fever … that, I do not know." I sighed and made an effort to sound more hopeful. "He will receive the best care in Gondor; our Healers here are the most skilled in all the kingdom. And perhaps Mithrandir will be able to help. He is no healer, as far as I know, but he knows dark secrets more than any of the rest of us could guess. Perhaps he will know some way to combat this dark sleep of the Enemy. I do know that he will not let Faramir perish, if he sees any way to save him."

So I told Svip, at any rate, and the answer seemed to comfort him. But in my own mind, I did not know.

That Mithrandir cared for my brother as he would for his own child, of that I was certain. But he was a Wizard, with the cares of millennia upon him and the fate of the ages ever in his mind. How much would one mortal Man matter to him, I wondered grimly, when battles that might settle the fate of all ages to come still hung in the balance?

I tried to turn the conversation to lighter topics. "You met my father, then?" I asked, as we started down the stairs.

Svip nodded. "Someone must have told him that I was telling Pippin and the others about how I brought you back to life. He rode back to the cart and asked if I would start the story from the beginning. So I told the whole tale again." With a sudden concerned glance up at me, Svip asked, "Is it all right that I told him?"

"Yes, certainly," I said. "I'm glad you did. He would have to hear it all eventually, and the more he's heard from you, perhaps the less I will have to tell him." I smiled at the image of the Lord Steward riding along and listening while Svip enthralled his audience of Men-at-arms, guildsmen and a Hobbit. "Did he say anything to your story?" I asked.

"Not much. He smiled a few times. But at the end of it he thanked me and told me I'd saved Gondor."

"Did he?" I shook my head in wonder. "It is not quite saved yet, but it was nice of him to say."

Leaving the Houses behind us, Svip and I made our way along the streets of the Sixth Level and into the tunnel that leads to the Citadel Gate. On this black evening, the tunnel was more brightly lit by far than the City without, under the edict of reduced lighting and the foul shadow of our Enemy. As we walked up the tunnel's slope, I started telling Svip of the builders of the Hill of Guard, of Anárion's command that a fortress be built here which no foe could take, and of how Anárion held the Dark Lord back from our borders in the days before the Last Alliance.

I had to interrupt my tale to give the passwords and answer the greetings of the guards at the Seventh Gate. Then, when we had climbed the steps beyond the Gate and stood at last before the White Tower and the Court of the Fountain, there was no call to continue the tale. Svip had found something else to capture his attention. He stopped for a moment, gazing about him, then he scampered across the greensward to the Fountain and stood at its very edge, delightedly watching the water.

I followed him, and for a few moments we watched and listened to the Fountain.

"I like it," Svip said finally. "It sounds a little like home. Like the waterfall, if you're listening to it from very far away."

"Yes," I murmured, thinking about it and hearing in my mind the distant roar of Rauros. "Yes, I suppose it does." I took a deep breath and recalled myself to the present. "We can come back and spend some more time here later. I had better get a move on, if I don't want to arouse my father's ire. You really should see the Fountain in the sunlight," I added, as Svip and I started onward. "Well, that is if we ever get any sunlight again."

Getting Svip from the Place of the Fountain to my chambers in the King's House was something of a challenge, as his first walk through a true city of Men had him scuttling about, wanting to investigate everything, disappearing into alleyways and poking into such curiosities as the flowerboxes beneath some of the buildings' windows. I had finally to remind him again of our daymeal date with my father and the captains, and promised that he would have a full tour of the Citadel later. A perfect assignment for Pippin, I thought, if my father would give the poor young Hobbit leave for long enough to be Svip's guide.

It was a strange feeling, stepping through the doors of the King's House and starting up the stairs toward my quarters. The familiarity of the route I was following seemed to make everything normal, to tell me that this homecoming was just the same as any other time that I had walked up those stairs. Yet I could not keep from thinking of how very close I had been, this time, to never coming home at all.

My rooms, I saw with relief, seemed unchanged. I had started to wonder, partway up the stairs, what might have been done to them when I was known to be dead; if I would find all the furniture shrouded in dust-covers or, Valar knew, if my father might have ordered the rooms emptied in the attempt to remove all painful reminders of his slain elder son.

But whatever he might have ordered done to them eventually, it appeared that my father had not yet got around to it. The only thing different that I noticed was a large barrel set on one of the tables, with "Orc's Head, The Harlond, Ivarr Son of Yngvarr, Proprietor" inscribed upon it. I gave mental thanks to Ivarr, Cirion and Gavrilo, and promised myself a good long drink of River water before facing this daymeal with the Steward and his captains.

My bed, I thought as I gazed around with satisfaction, looked very tempting. But more tempting by far was the prospect of a real bath, in actual hot, soapy water instead of another dunking in River, harbour or swamp.

I yanked on the bell-pull, plopped down in one of my armchairs, and started on the somewhat uncomfortable process of struggling out of my boots.

"Svip," I said to my comrade, who was looking ready to burst from curiosity as he eyed my room, "you can look around all you like. I don't mind if you touch things and open things up, but _please_ leave everything the way you find it. Men don't keep house in quite the same way as you do. I don't like my clothes in piles; I like them folded up and stored in chests and cupboards."

Svip nodded happily and sped to explore the nearest chest and its contents, and I reflected that my father and brother both would have some snide comments to make if they heard me say that, considering the view they held on my standards of tidiness. But then, my father and brother had not seen Svip's place. If they had, perhaps they would finally agree with me that I was really very tidy, after all.

One of the servants appeared in answer to my bell. He was unable to keep from grinning as he bowed and welcomed me home, but otherwise he remained unflappable, not even appearing troubled by the unexpected sight of Svip. I gave orders that Svip was to be granted free run of the King's House and was to be admitted to my quarters at any hour of the day or night, then I commanded that a bath be brought and readied at once.

_I really must not let myself be late to the council by luxuriating too long in the bath_, I told myself, when at last the bath was prepared and I had peeled myself out of the clothes that I'd worn for the past eight months of walking, swimming and fighting across half Middle Earth.

"I do not want those back, thank you," I told the valet, as he collected my clothing from the chair where I had flung it. "They can be discarded, or they can be laundered and given away, if you think there's use yet to be had out of them. Those clothes and I have spent far too much time together."

"Yes, My Lord," he said, while I settled into my bath. As I was climbing in, I thought that I saw the valet notice the arrow holes in my shirt and tunics, and look in alarm from the arrow holes to me and back again. But I closed my eyes and let myself slide down into the water, and the valet did not comment.

Two considerations, above the desire not to annoy my father by being late, prevented me from lingering too long in that bath. One was the continual rustling and creaking noises that I heard as Svip poked through chests, desk drawers and I knew not what else, and I imagined emerging from my bath to find all my possessions in piles upon the floor. The other was my anger and sour guilt at the thought that I was comfortable and well, while my brother might be upon the brink of death.

Svip had not, it turned out, rearranged all of my belongings, though when I got out of the bath and went looking for him, I was a trifle alarmed to see only his feet sticking out from the opened chest beside my desk. I inquired if he was all right, and received his muffled reply that he was fine, he was just counting the documents in the chest.

The water being jumped out from the chest and slammed it shut again as I was getting dressed. He asked eagerly if I wanted help picking out clothing, which offer I politely but firmly declined. My small green friend then perched on the steps leading up to my bed, and watched in fascination while I donned my clothes.

I thought, _I am going to have to find something useful for Svip to do around this place. Perhaps I can get him to inventory the entire contents of the Citadel_.

Before leaving for the council I went over to the barrel of River water, drank down two goblets of it and used a little more to rub over my hands and face.

"How are you feeling?" Svip asked. "Are you missing the River yet?"

"Not really," I said. "Not too badly. Maybe we're still close enough to the River that it won't be as bad as last time."

Svip eyed me suspiciously. I could not help fearing that he was right to have his doubts. But I truly did feel fine, I told myself. I was a slight bit tired, perhaps, but it was hardly the sort of indisposition that would compel me to fight my way through Sauron's armies in my need to get back to the River.

I led Svip downstairs to my father's chambers. We were not quite the last to arrive, as Duinhir of Morthand and his sons hastened into the room just after we did. I was still responsible for the daymeal commencing a minute or two later than my father intended, for many of our captains clustered about me, gripping my hand, slapping me on the back, and boisterously inquiring how I had managed to avoid becoming crebain-bait this time.

Old Forlong the Fat of Lossarnach advised me that I was looking too skinny by half and I ought to put some flesh back on my bones, and Húrin Keeper of the Keys told me at least five times how good it was to see me home again, and said that his sister had cried for a week straight, when the news came of my death. That last comment I did not take too seriously, for since their father's death made him the head of the household, Húrin has been constantly trying to marry off his sister to every nobleman of Gondor, Faramir and me included. He did wait a respectful amount of time after the deaths of our wives, but I had lost track of how many times over the past few years Húrin had enumerated to me all the delightful, wifely qualities his sister possessed, always omitting to mention her rather shrewish tongue.

"Gentlemen," my father interposed at last. "I appreciate your wish to welcome my son home. But we have urgent matters requiring our attention."

A long table and chairs had been set out. My father took his place at the head of the table, and with seeming graciousness he requested Mithrandir to sit at the far end. With a smile and a bow the Wizard accepted the honour of presiding at one end of the table, but I had little doubt he knew as well as I did that the Lord Steward preferred Mithrandir as far away from him as possible.

Pippin stood behind my father's chair as the rest of us sought places at the table, but the Steward was feeling generous that evening. "Master Peregrin," he said, "I will not require your attendance for this time. You may dine with the rest. I suspect it is no easy task for your people to stand and watch while others eat, and you have borne that hardship bravely in my service."

Pippin blushed and bowed, and my uncle Imrahil offered the Hobbit the seat at his left, across the table from Svip and me.

Before we sat to the table, my father led us in turning to face the west, where lost Númenor sleeps beneath the waves. I was a little surprised to see him make that nod to tradition, for seldom had I known my father to perform that ritual save at the highest state occasions and the Yule and Lithe Day feasts. But, I reflected, if there was any night when the custom should have meaning to us, it was this night, when the darkness again rolled in upon the west, and the destroyer of Númenor once more reached out to close his hand about our throats.

In keeping with the times, our meal that night was more suited to the camp of a campaigning army than the table of a great nation's master. There was bread and wine, cold mutton and a couple of rounds of cheese. As we commenced to pass the food about the table, my father stood from his chair. Startled, those of us who had noticed started to get up from our chairs again. He waved us back down.

"Be seated, all of you," the Steward commanded. "Before we consider the peril even now encircling us, I must acknowledge a debt, and strive to give some token of our country's thanks. Master Svip, will you come here now to me?"

Svip cast me a nervous glance. I smiled at him and squeezed his shoulder, and with a little shrug he hopped down from his chair and padded over to the Lord Steward.

Standing beside the Steward, Svip was barely tall enough to be seen over the table. I saw several of the captains smile in amusement as they sat up straighter to get a better look at the unusual pair of tall, dignified Steward and green horse-faced halfling.

"My Lords," my father said in strong, ringing tones, sounding again as I remembered him from the days of my childhood, "I present to you Master Svip of Anduin, who has restored my son Boromir to his father's arms and to the hearts of a grieving nation. There are no thanks great enough to repay such a debt. But I ask of you, Svip: what reward would you desire of us? What can a father do to thank the one who restored the son who was lost to him?"

"I –" Svip began. He glanced uncomfortably at me again, then looked hesitantly back up at my father. "I – I don't know, My Lord," he said. "I don't need a reward, really."

"But there is something you desire," the Steward said, smiling at Svip with more patience and warmth than most at that table would ever have expected of him. "There is something for which you wish, my friend. Ask it."

"Well," Svip tried again. "I – the fountain by the tower. I was wondering … might I be allowed to sleep in it?"

There was a stir of movement and whispers around the table, which my father silenced with an icy stare. "Go on," he said, turning to Svip.

"Well, you see, I sleep in water at home. And the fountain's so beautiful and clear, and the sound of it is like the waterfall, where my house is … I just thought it would be good to sleep in. That's all. But I really don't need to, if people aren't supposed to be in the fountain …"

"Do not be afraid," my father told him. "You have asked nothing wrong."

The Steward turned to face the assembled company.

"Be it known to all present," he declared, "and be it proclaimed throughout our land: from this day forward, Svip of Anduin is appointed bodyguard to my son and heir the Lord Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor. I, Denethor Son of Ecthelion, grant him the freedom of our City and our realm. He may travel through Gondor as he pleases, and will be welcomed as a friend wherever the Men of Gondor dwell. I decree that he has leave to sleep in the Fountain of the White Tree, and to spend all the time in the Fountain that he may desire. Svip," he continued, kneeling down before my friend so that he, too, could barely be seen beyond the table, "I thank you as a father and as the Steward of Gondor, for you have restored the hope and future of our county."

My father reached out his hand to Svip, and after a moment's hesitation Svip clasped the Steward's hand in his.

I know that I was blushing then, and I am almost sure that Svip was too, for his face was certainly a darker shade of green than usual. I think that was the most effusive speech I ever heard my father give, and I nearly wanted to hide beneath the table in my embarrassment that my return had been the cause of it.

It was an immense relief to me when one of the captains, I know not which one, leapt up from his chair and started cheering the names of Svip, my father and myself. The others followed suit, and I stood with the rest of them, glad of the upsurge of cheering and applause that gave me a moment to recover from my embarrassment.

Eventually order was restored. Svip made his way back to his chair and boosted himself up onto it, and the rest sat to the table again. Before the company was fully ordered once more, young Derufin of Morthand, on the other side of Svip from me, inquired curiously, "No offense intended, but, will folk not think it a bit strange that your father has appointed you a bodyguard as small as Lord Svip?"

"They will not once they have seen him fight," I assured the young captain. "He can be very formidable. Many of our Men from Osgiliath and the Causeway will tell you that. As would many Orcs and Southrons, had you the power to make the dead speak."

"Then I look forward to the chance of fighting at your side, My Lord," Derufin told Svip.

My father's voice cut through the general conversation once again. "What then of the foe's advance? Húrin, what is the latest news from the walls?"

Húrin of the Keys stood up at his place to give his report. "The Gate is closed," he said. "It was shut at last, shortly after the Lord Denethor's sortie returned from the Harlond. The last word we have from without the walls came from our Men retreating along the northward road. Lieutenant Ingold of the Forannest Garrison led those last Men to reach us before the Gate was shut. They report that they received no word from the Rohirrim. But they saw ample evidence of the host that took Cair Andros, advanced now upon us by land. Ingold and his Men report that this host is strong: battalions of Orcs of the Eye, reinforced, they say, by companies of Men of a new sort that we have not met before. Not tall, but broad and grim, bearded like Dwarves and wielding great axes. These and their Orc brethren hold the northward road, and there is little chance that the Rohirrim could fight their way through to us, even did they bring all the fighting Men of their country."

As grim glances were exchanged around the table, Húrin continued. "From the fires spotted across the plain, we must assume that at least some vanguard of the foe is near upon us, two miles from the wall at the very farthest. We cannot guess in this darkness how many may already have crossed the River. The watch upon the walls is doubled, and will remain so throughout the night. All the garrison of the City are on the alert and ready to join their comrades on the wall should the enemy launch an attack this night. If they do not, then it seems we can only wait until the day brings us more light, and we can see more fully how our foes are deployed."

My father put in, as Húrin took his seat again, "Even when the day, or the shadow of it, does come to us, there is little hope that any further sortie on our part would now succeed. Particularly now that the road from Rohan is blocked – and since we cannot, like our foe, send forth portions of our cavalry on wings, but must risk letting the enemy in our front door, if we open the Gate to send forth our horsemen. Our only possible strategy seems that of defence, to hold the wall at all costs, and to keep our Enemy's forces cooling their heels upon the Pelennor. If need be, we will hold them until they run out of food and plunder, and nothing remains of our fields to keep their army alive. Dark Lord and Black Captains or no, their troops are mortal, and there is no magic strong enough to hold together an army that is without food."

The Steward cast a challenging gaze about the table, as if daring any of us to point out that our own food supply was limited as well, and we had less hope of replenishing it than did the hosts of our foe. No one spoke, though I saw a brooding frown draw together Mithrandir's brows.

My father, I was not surprised to learn, had noted the Wizard's scowl as well. "You have an objection to make, My Lord Mithrandir?" the Steward asked, with venomous sweetness. "Perhaps you see some way of escaping the trap in which we find ourselves?"

For a long moment Mithrandir's deep, blazing eyes held the gaze of the Lord Denethor. But for this time, at least, the Wizard seemed more angry at himself or at fate in general, than at my father. "I'm afraid I do not, My Lord Steward," he answered. "Though I cannot but think that too long have we chosen the path of defence, and that there are times when victory must be seized, rather than simply waited for."

"We are in agreement," my father countered. "Show me a way to seize victory without needlessly sacrificing all the blood of our City, and I will gladly take it."

Fearing we would spend the entire night with my father and Mithrandir locking horns, I interjected, "If I may, My Lords: if our strategy is to hold the wall at any cost, then we must be sure that we use all weapons and all forces available to us. We must ensure that all remaining citizenry are armed, and ready to join in the defence if necessary. Húrin, is it not so that we have more weaponry in the City garrisons than we require to arm our troops, and that these surplus weapons would be available for distribution to the citizens?"

"It is so, My Lord," Húrin assented. "I can set members of the City Guard to distributing the surplus to our remaining civilians tonight, if that is the Steward's command."

"It is my command," agreed my father. "Let the surplus bows be distributed first to those who have skill with them, for we must hope it will be some time before we are compelled to fight in closer quarters than those to which archery will answer."

"What is our supply of arrows?" Lord Duinhir of Morthand inquired. "We must consider that, as well. We of Morthand have brought with us, we estimate, arrows enough to supply our archers through three solid days of hard fighting. We should be able to somewhat replenish our supply by scavenging those arrows that the enemy sends at us, but I would hope that we will be able to keep them out of the range to succeed in many of their arrows reaching us. Has Minas Tirith more to give us, and all of its guards and citizenry, when our arrows run out?"

Húrin stated, "Were all the troops of the City, its remaining citizens and the warriors of the Outlands firing at once, I will hazard that we have arrows enough to last a week. Since we may have to keep up this fight a good deal longer than one week, it seems we will be well advised to make the replenishment of our arrows a priority for any Men off duty. May we count upon your Men to aid in that effort, Lord Duinhir?"

"If Minas Tirith will supply the materials, Morthand will supply the artisans," Duinhir answered.

"My Lords," spoke up Imrahil of Dol Amroth. "The Enemy will have other weapons at his command, that arrows will not answer. We must consider the risk of fire within the City. Since the populace is to be deployed in the City's defence, then here, perhaps, is a role that many may more usefully fill than as additional archers. While the City Guard are distributing surplus weapons, may they not also organize the citizens into fire-fighting companies, that we may be the more ready when the foe sends fire against us?"

"Let the manpower of the guilds be enlisted in this cause," I suggested. "Speak to the guildleaders and leave the task of organizing each Level's fire-fighters to them. Even the least warlike of guildsmen should be motivated to protect his own stock from fire. Let us put that to good use."

"You speak wisely, Nephew," My uncle said, nodding to me. "My Lord Húrin, I will serve as liaison to the guilds and will take responsibility for the fire-fighting effort, if you wish it."

"I thank you, My Lord Prince," the Keeper of the Keys replied.

For the next moments, none of us spoke. The voice of the Steward broke the silence. "If we are agreed that we have our preparations well in hand, then I would beg the captains' indulgence a few minutes longer. Some of you may have wondered at the Grey Wanderer's presence in our council. And many have been the speculations, these eight months past, on the mission that sent my son and heir beyond our borders at this time of our country's need. If you will, My Lord Mithrandir: the time has come to let the captains of Gondor know in what hope the Council of the Wise have placed their trust, and what struggles rage elsewhere while we hold this embattled island."

I caught an alarmed glance from Pippin. He looked from my father, to Mithrandir, to me, and back to the Steward again. Like the Hobbit, I found myself looking from my father to the Wizard and back.

Mithrandir sat unmoving and made no reply, fixing the Steward with his stormcloud gaze. That gaze, my father returned in kind, answering the storms of Mithrandir's eyes with a stare as piercing as lightning.

It was far from the first time that I had watched this jousting between Mithrandir and my father. As always, I felt like a dull-witted child watching them, struggling to keep up with the adults' conversation that I would never fully comprehend.

Some of it, this time, I thought I could understand.

My father knew of the quest to destroy the Ring. Or, he knew some of it and he had guessed the rest.

But what else might lie behind the challenge that Wizard and Steward glared at each other – if they had argued over the fate of the Ring, if my father blamed Mithrandir for the peril in which we now stood, if Mithrandir feared that my father's knowledge betokened some new challenge to the Ringbearer's quest – on that I could only guess.

"As you say, My Lord Steward," Mithrandir said at last. "As Gondor is to bear the first brunt of our Enemy's fury, her captains should know on what we have pinned our hopes."

The Wizard stood. Pippin looked unhappily at me. I shifted in my seat, trying to find some comfortable position in which to endure a repeat performance of Lord Elrond's Council.

Mithrandir's speech was a good deal shorter this time, without the hours' long contributions of Lord Elrond and of Frodo's uncle. For that, at least, I was grateful.

In a quiet voice that yet carried to all of us at that long table, Mithrandir spoke.

He spoke of the forging of the Rings of Power, of Sauron's rise, of the Last Alliance and Isildur's fall, of Gollum and of the Ring's finding, of the perils met by Frodo and his friends on their path to Imladris, and at last of the decision of the White Council, that sent forth the Fellowship of Nine to cast the Ring into the Mountain of Fire.

As the Wizard's words rolled on, I slouched further and further down in my chair. Several times I nearly stood up and excused myself from this portion of the council, on the grounds that I had sat through Mithrandir's history lesson before. But, I reminded myself, it would be scarcely fitting if the Steward's son walked out on a report that the Steward himself had commanded.

I strove to pass the time by watching the captains' reactions, studying each of their faces with their varying expressions of disbelief, dread, awe, amazement, and boredom. But as Mithrandir's tale drew into the segment in which I had played a part, I came to realise that I, too, was under scrutiny.

Pippin kept glancing almost guiltily at me, studying me with worried eyes as though he feared what I might do in response to Mithrandir's words.

Svip must have caught the Hobbit's worried looks. And he noticed something else. He put his hand on my arm, and when I looked down to see what he wanted, Svip was staring toward my father, like a trembling rabbit staring at a fox.

I followed Svip's stare. My father's gaze was riveted on me, with a blazing intensity that did not alter as our eyes met.

Of a sudden, I wondered, _Was that his only purpose in ordering Mithrandir's recital, to see how I reacted to it_?

I swiftly looked away. I forced myself to sit up straight, and glared at a point in the air somewhere beyond Mithrandir's shoulder. With an effort I stopped myself from drumming my fingers on the tabletop.

_Bloody hell, Father! _I thought. _If you wanted to know what I think of this damned fool quest, you might have just asked me!_

The Wizard's tale was drawing to its close. He made no mention, I noted, of the identity of Aragorn, nor did he touch upon the manner of the Fellowship's breaking. He said only that our company came under attack, the attack in which I was killed, and that the Ringbearer and his servant escaped, setting out on their own into Mordor. He spoke, then, of Faramir's meeting with the Ringbearer in Ithilien. And there the story ceased, with the Enemy's Ring and its bearer passing into the Black Land and out of our knowledge.

The captains stirred in their chairs, glancing at each other as though all hoped that someone else would have something to say.

Forlong of Lossarnach spoke first. Looking about him with an expression of growing incredulity, he finally exclaimed, "_That_ was the choice of the Wise? To let the One Ring stray into the land of the Enemy, with only two halflings to guard it?"

Taking all of us by surprise – except, I suppose, my father – Pippin leaped to his feet.

"You do not know Frodo!" he cried out. "He's got more strength in him than you think. He's carried the Ring safely when no Man or Elf could have done it!"

The young Hobbit looked abashed as everyone turned to look at him. But he held his ground. For some moments Forlong studied him with raised eyebrows. Then the massive chieftain heaved himself to his feet.

"I meant not to offend you, Master _Perian_," Forlong said, bowing to Pippin. "It is not the choice I would have made, that is all. But I was not asked to make the choice."

My uncle Imrahil put his hand on Pippin's shoulder. Pippin stared angrily at Forlong for another moment, then he bowed to the chieftain in turn and sat back down.

As Forlong went through the decidedly lengthier process of sitting himself down again, Golasgil of the Anfalas spoke in troubled tones. "Yet Lord Forlong may be right," he said. "We should cast no blame upon the halflings, but there may be much blame to be cast upon the White Council. Was it, then, the only way, to send the Ring into Mordor with so scant a guard? Why not send it with an army, that at least might have a chance of fighting through to Orodruin's flames?"

"What army would have that chance?" demanded Hirluin the Fair of Pinnath Gelin. "Better to send a small force that might sneak through, than an army that would be slaughtered before ever they reached the Morannon!"

"Why send small force _or_ army?" young Duilin of Morthand cried out excitedly. "If the Wise feared to keep this thing themselves, let them send it to Gondor! Our Lord would not fear it, nor would he fail to guard it from the Enemy's clutches!"

A burst of exclamations and argument followed the young lord's words. My uncle Imrahil's voice cut through the tumult.

"Why do we argue it, My Lords, when the choice and the Ring both are beyond our reach? We sit here in a City besieged, unable to set foot beyond our walls. Why, then, squander our time in debate upon what might have been?"

Svip sat huddled close to me, watching the captains in dread, as if fearing at any moment to see them start slaying each other. I squeezed his arm and whispered, "It's all right, Svip. Men just shout a lot at each other. You're liable to hear a good bit of this sort of thing, if you stay with us."

As Svip managed a sickly smile, Húrin of the Keys addressed me. "My Lord Boromir, you were there when this course of action was chosen. What do you think of this quest to destroy the Ring?"

It is no new experience for me to have the gaze of many upon me. But that night, I felt three pairs of eyes upon me as though their gaze burned holes in my skin: those of Svip, of Pippin, and of my father.

"It was the will of the White Council," I stated, knowing full well that I had not truly answered the question. "I pledged my assistance to the quest, believing it the duty of Gondor to support any effort against our Enemy. If the quest seemed a forlorn hope, that was nothing new to me, or to any of us. It is long since we have had any but forlorn hopes to which we may cling."

For a moment I was answered by silence. Then Forlong the Fat grumbled in exaggerated disgust, "I suppose it's too late now to get the Ring back."

The suggestion was preposterous enough to break through the tension. Amid smiles from many of the captains, I bowed to Forlong and declared, "My Lord, if you can break the siege, rout the Dark Lord's armies and seize the Ring from the bowels of Mordor, you can be Captain-General and I will retire to Lossarnach."

"I thank you, My Lord, but I couldn't live in the City. I'm too fat to manage all these stairs."

"Enough," the Lord Steward decreed, getting up from his chair. Either my father had learned all that he wished to learn, or he'd decided he would not learn it from banter over Forlong of Lossarnach's weight.

All of us stood. The Steward said, "Whatever our choices might once have been, we have none now. We have only our duty, to hold the foe here and prevent them from taking one step beyond our walls. If the bearer of the Enemy's Ring yet lives, perhaps we may hold the Dark Lord's attention long enough to give the Ringbearer the chance he requires. Come what may, in three thousand years and more no foe has yet trod upon the Hill of Guard. Remember that, and vow with me to ensure that this does not change. The Dark Lord has never triumphed over Gondor. It is our duty to see to it that he does not triumph now."

My father paused then, studying us with his commanding gaze that seemed to burn into each Man's soul. Then he said, "We have our appointed tasks. Let us set about them. For Gondor."

"For Gondor!" The assembled captains took up the battle cry.

As our captains began to disperse, my father strode toward me. "Boromir," he said briskly. "Will you stay a while? We have still much to discuss, if you can spare the time."

"Of course, My Lord," I said with a bow.

The Steward turned and addressed Pippin, who looked slightly lost standing amid the captains of Gondor. "Master Peregrin, I have a task for you that may be more to your liking than running an old Man's errands. I believe Master Svip could use a tour of the Citadel. Will you be his guide, and see, as well, that he has whatever he requires when he wishes to retire to the Fountain? If you will do so, then I free you from all other duties until the morrow. If that meets with your approval as well, Master Svip," he added.

"Of course, My Lord," Svip said, and Pippin bowed and said, "Very willingly, My Lord."

Svip smiled a bit tentatively at Pippin. The Hobbit hesitated a moment, then smiled back.

Turning to me, Svip asked, "You will wake me up when the battle starts, won't you? You won't go into the fight without me?"

"I'll wake you up," I assured him. "I won't let you miss anything."

My two small friends set out, leaving my father and me with only the servants who hovered waiting to clear away the table.

"Leave us," my father ordered. "You may clear up later."

The servants bowed and departed. I went to refill my wine goblet, smiling a little as I thought of Pippin and Svip.

It seemed there was every chance of them getting along well, for which I was deeply grateful. I had feared, when first I thought of it, that Svip might become jealous of Pippin, since the water creature had not yet had much to do with other beings that I considered my friends. But hopefully, as it now seemed might be the case, the inherent good natures of Pippin and Svip would draw them together instead of dividing them.

As I poured the wine, I noticed my father watching me with a disapproving eye.

"I have had one goblet with my meal, sir," I said in weary irritation. "I hardly believe that another will incapacitate me."

"You know best, I am sure," my father replied, in his tone that said just the opposite.

I drank down a hefty swig from the goblet merely for the sake of annoying him, then inquired, "What did you wish to discuss?"

With startling suddenness, my father's disapproval and annoyance seemed to vanish, replaced by an aura of utter exhaustion. "Boromir," he sighed, shaking his head. He sank down into his chair, and gestured to the chair that I had occupied before, at his right hand. "Will you sit down?"

I obeyed, and took a more civilised sip of my wine. "Are you not well, sir?" I asked suddenly, unable to stop myself, although I knew full well how my father hated any suggestion that he was not in the peak of health.

"I am well," he said, giving a bitter smile. "Old, unfortunately, but as well as I can expect."

He gazed at me then with an odd sort of wistfulness, as if the fact of my existence were some treasured dream from which he knew he would soon awake. "What of you, my son?" he asked. "Are you well? I have heard tell of some restrictions imposed upon you by your resurrection, and of barrels of River water sent to your quarters."

I knew my father well enough not to be surprised at whatever he might turn out to know. "It is true, sir," I answered. "Svip used River water in the spell with which he brought me back. It has left me bound to the Anduin, in ways that I do not yet fully understand. I think I have learned, at least, that I cannot remain more than four miles or so from the River for any length of time. At more than four miles, my strength and resilience diminishes the farther I go. Ten miles would seem to be the farthest extreme possible, and the time I tried that, it nearly killed me." I smiled ruefully at him and shrugged. "At the distance we are now, I simply do not know. I'm hoping that we are close enough for me to continue functioning, at least at something near my normal capacity. I will keep drinking River water; that does seem to help."

My father frowned at me in concern. "Do what you must to survive," he ordered. "If you need to return to the River, we will get you there. No matter what it costs."

"I have every intention of getting there, sir," I said, in an attempt at lightness, "at the head of our army, driving the Easterlings and Southrons back into their wastelands."

"I would not count on that, Boromir," he said with sudden derisive pessimism. "We will be fortunate, indeed, if any of us live to see Anduin once more." He sighed and shook his head again, dismissing the topic. "Tell me of your journey," he commanded.

"What would you hear of it?" I asked, still trying to say something that would lighten his mood. "I should think after Lord Mithrandir's saga, you would have heard more than enough."

That comment did, at least, induce a minimal smile. "More than enough from him, certainly. But I would hear it from you." Before I could begin to think of what to tell him, some new trouble seemed to darken my father's gaze. "What of this Aragorn Son of Arathorn?" he asked. "What is your judgement of him?"

_Wonderful_, I thought. _I can always count on my father to pick out the topics that I wish least to talk about_. I took another drink, then asked, "Of him, sir? Or of his lineage and his claims?"

"Of both. Has he stated publicly his claim?"

"He has. At Lord Elrond's Council he declared himself the Heir of Isildur, and showed, as proof of his claim, the sword of Elendil, broken in combat with the Dark Lord himself and passed down through the line of the Kings and Chieftains of the North. Or," I amended, "he showed the two pieces of a sword that he claimed was Elendil's, and that has the style and markings of weapons of that era. That is all I can say of it beyond the shade of doubt."

My father demanded, voice hard and cold, "And did he lay claim to Gondor's throne?"

I sighed, trying to think back to what actually had or had not been said. "No," I said slowly. "He did not in so many words, I think, though he did ask me if I wished the House of Elendil returned to our land. He said that he would bear his re-forged sword to Minas Tirith, and join us in our fight against the Dark. To the throne he laid no claim, I believe, at least not while I journeyed in his company. But I assumed that he would seek the throne when he had proved his worth to us in battle."

There was a strange expression on my father's face; a bitter smile as though he had tasted something loathsome, and in his eyes a look of coldly burning hatred.

"What is his appearance?" the Steward asked.

"His appearance?" I repeated, wondering what on earth my father might be driving at. What could Aragorn's appearance contribute to the discussion? There was nothing about his countenance, surely, which proved that he was or was not the rightful King.

Nonetheless I replied, "About my height, but a good deal skinnier. Black hair with some traces of grey. Grey eyes. A worn face, as though he has lived too well or not well enough. He prefers going clean-shaven, I would assume; at least he shaved regularly both at Imladris and Lothlorien. His age could be anything from thirty to sixty; the years lived out-of-doors may have aged him more than his actual years warrant."

Seeing that bitter look still blazing in my father's eyes, I sought some way to distract him from whatever had roused his hate. "I hardly see how knowing his appearance helps us," I remarked. "He has the look of a Man of Gondor; what of that? It does not prove him the King. We do not dwell in the world of fairy tales, where all the long-lost kings are identified by distinctive birthmarks on their backsides."

My joke was rewarded by a small smile, that did at least seem to hold some actual amusement. "We can be grateful for that, at least," my father commented, "for it is not a proof of kingship that I should care to investigate."

"In that, sir, we are in full agreement."

The momentary trace of humour vanished from the Steward's face. "And what was your opinion of him?" my father demanded. "You must have formed some conclusions regarding him, if you spent four months in his company."

"Aye, sir," I said irritably, beginning to grow very tired of this questioning, "I formed the conclusion that four months was four months too much."

Immediately I regretted speaking quite so harshly of one with whom I had endured so many perils. I sighed. "He has courage and fortitude," I said. "He is a strong and skilled fighter. A leader of some skill, and much loved by those to whom he appears in the role of protector. Somewhat lacking, I would say, in the skills of working with others. Perhaps he did not require those skills in the northern woods. He does not share command easily, and has little patience for any who may differ from his beliefs. A good king, perhaps, for those who need to be led. Somewhat less satisfactory for those with the skills to lead themselves."

My father gave a satisfied smile, as though my words had banished some doubt from his mind. "Enough of him," he said. "We will have time enough to think of him later, if he lives to grace us with his presence, and if we live to receive that honour."

The Steward got to his feet then and began to pace, a thoughtful frown settling on his countenance. Watching him, I wondered, _Which topic of which I don't want to speak of is he going to pick out next?_

He did not leave me long to wonder. Pausing and eyeing me keenly, my father said, "You did not answer the question that Húrin of the Keys put to you. What _do_ you think of the quest to destroy the Ring?"

"I told Húrin the truth," I said stolidly. "I thought it my duty to aid the quest. As the only representative of Gondor at that Council, I felt that I could not leave our country unrepresented in their efforts."

"So you said," my father persisted. "And you and I both know that it is no answer."

I took a swig that emptied my wine goblet, and stood up, glaring at my Lord and father.

"Very well, sir," I said. "There were times when I believed that the choice to destroy the Ring made sense. A few times, and very far between. The rest of the time, I felt that I was there to protect the others, to provide them safe passage for so long as our roads were the same, and because I liked not to abandon the Hobbits, the Elf and the Dwarf to the reckless knight-errantry of Mithrandir and his Ranger protégé."

I laughed bitterly, my father now having steered me onto a topic concerning which I could rant for hours. "Do you know, sir, what the Wizard proposed doing? He would have led the halflings and the rest of us into the Pass of Caradhras in the teeth of a snowstorm, without bringing so much as one twig of firewood! I should have thought, at least, that the Ranger would have spoken against that; but perhaps they do not have snow in the forests of the north."

My father smiled at that, though without a great deal of mirth. "And what of the Ring itself?" he asked, his gaze fixed upon my face as he awaited my answer. "If you did not believe in the wisdom of destroying it, what then did you believe?"

I had a strong feeling that I would not enjoy where this conversation was heading. "I believed that it would have been wiser to bring the Ring here," I said, my voice sounding flat and heavy to my own ears as I spoke. "To secure it in the Citadel, and to take counsel to determine if we were better advised to keep it in hiding, or to use it against our Enemy and strike him before he could strike us."

I forced myself to hold the Lord Steward's gaze, though I did not at all like the predatory gleam in his eyes as he watched me. "I made no secret of my opinions, and several times advised the Company that we should make for Minas Tirith, not Mordor. They did not share my view of the matter."

My father asked softly, "And did you do nothing more than give your advice?"

I clenched my fists, as anger and shame rushed into me with the memory of that day. Forcing my voice to remain steady, I said, "When the moment neared when our Company must part ways, choosing the road to Gondor or to Mordor, I sought to convince the Ringbearer of the wisdom of my arguments. I am not proud of my actions on that day, My Lord. The Ringbearer refused to turn his path toward Gondor. I attacked him and sought to take the Ring by force. I failed."

"Failed?" came my father's quiet, knife-like voice. "How? I was under the impression that the Ringbearer was of no greater size or strength than my young Esquire. How is it that a mere halfling managed to defeat the foremost warrior of Gondor?"

I eyed him angrily, stung by the scorn that rang through his words. "The Ring has the interesting property, My Lord, of rendering its wearer invisible. So, at least, we were told by Frodo's ancient uncle, and so I saw for myself when I assaulted Frodo. Invisible, he fled from me."

"And you could not track him? There were no fallen leaves and branches upon that forest floor, then, to crack beneath his invisible feet? You astonish me, Lord Boromir. I would not have thought my Captain-General so easily turned from his purpose, that a terrified Hobbit could succeed in escaping him, invisible or no. When the survival of Gondor is at stake, I would have expected more of you."

I snapped, "I would have you try it, My Lord, before you chastise me. It is no easy matter to pursue invisible quarry through unfamiliar terrain, particularly when –"

I stopped short, for the words that would have followed were not ones that I ever wished my father to hear. I would have said, _Particularly when you are weeping too hard to be able to see through your tears_.

I sought another means of ending this line of discussion. "The pursuit was interrupted, My Lord. It was nigh upon that time that we were attacked by several dozen Orcs. When the Ringbearer and his servant set out toward Mordor, I happened to be dead."

My father winced as though from the pain of an old wound, and swiftly looked away from me. I thought, at first, that I had succeeded in ending the interrogation. The Steward sank into his chair and sat a moment in silence. But when he spoke, his quiet, haunted words still lingered in the forest of Amon Hen.

"You might not have been slain," he said, "if you had persevered in your pursuit of the Ring. With the One Ring in your grasp, will you have me believe that even an army of Orcs could have withstood you?"

"If I had?" I echoed quietly. "You have told me often enough that such words are useless."

"Useless? Yes. As are all our efforts, now that the one weapon which might have saved Gondor has passed beyond our grasp."

His words tore at me. I pulled my chair closer to his and sat down, gripping his hand where it rested upon his chair's carven arm. "What would you have had me do, sir?" I asked, hearing a note of pleading in my voice far more desperate than I had expected or intended. "Should I, then, have pursued Frodo with no thought of my oath to the Company, or of his safety? Would you have had me seize the Ring at any cost, even if I had to murder Frodo to achieve it?"

The blackness of my father's eyes was unfathomable, as deep as the dark of Mordor that had swallowed our skies. He asked me, still in that hollow, hopeless tone, "Was your oath to the Company, then, of more meaning to you than your oath to Gondor? Did you place more value upon the halfling's life than on the lives of our people?"

"Sir," I argued, "you did not bring me up as a brigand, to seize whatever I am strong enough to take with no thought for any weaker creatures hurt or destroyed in the process. If that is the way that Gondor is to survive, should we not also command the presence in our armies of all the Men of our tributary lands, and enslave or slay any who refuse to serve us? And if that is the way we are to rule, will you tell me in what particulars our rule is preferable to the rule of Sauron?"

My father's mouth twisted in a sneering smile. "Noble words, my son. Noble and meaningless, for when the Dark Lord devours our land, there will be none left to debate the morality of our actions. If I had wished to place Gondor's fate in the hands of one who would count moral paradoxes and the philosophising of Wizards of more value than the lives of our people, I would have sent your brother to Imladris. I see now that you are as lost to me as he is."

I clutched my father's hand harder, desperate to find something to say that would make him believe me. "Neither of us is lost to you, My Lord. Neither of us _will_ be lost to you, if we live. You have our love and our obedience. As you have always had and always will."

"What is your obedience worth, if you held the salvation of Gondor in your hands and let it slip through your fingers?"

"_Would_ it have been the salvation of Gondor? Can we know that? If I had brought the Ring to you and concealed it here, would we be any more secure than we are at this moment? Or would the Dark Lord simply strike at us with more fury, not resting for one instant until he'd dismantled our City stone by stone and could hold his Ring once more?"

Desperation on the edge of hysteria glimmered in my father's eyes. "How would that differ from where we are now?" he demanded. "Have you not seen their fires creep across our plains? Have you not heard the voices of our enemy, closing about us in the dark?"

Of a sudden, he took a shuddering breath, and rubbed one hand over his face. He stood, and gripped the back of his chair with hands that were suddenly trembling. I jumped to my feet.

"After all," my father said in a voice of aching weariness, almost as though speaking to himself, "it is over. You made the attempt, and it was fate that caused it to fail. Fate and certain of its tools," he added, bitterness again creeping into his tone, "such as Lord Mithrandir and his beloved Ranger. And we are left, with the Dark Lord at our Gate and no shield against him save a stone wall and a handful of arrows."

"My Lord," I protested, hating to hear the desolation in his voice. "It is not quite so hopeless as that."

"Is it not, my son?" he inquired, with a mocking smile. "Is it not?" He sighed, and all emotions seemed to vanish from his face, save for simple exhaustion. "We shall see soon enough," he told me. "And I hope that we will live for me to be able to admit that you were right."

The Lord Steward grasped my shoulder, once again gazing into my face as though he dared not believe in my existence. "You have given enough of your time to an old Man's ramblings," he said. "Go and take your rest. You will need all of your strength upon the morrow."

"We all will, sir," I answered, reaching up and closing my hand around his. "I would give the same advice to you, if I believed there was any chance that you would take it."

He smiled ruefully and let his hand drop away from mine. "As to that," he said, "we must accept what boons the gods of sleep dole out to us. When you leave, summon the servants to clear away the table. We will speak again in the morning."

"Yes, sir," I said, smiling back at him and wondering almost if I had imagined the conversation that had just passed between us.

"Sir," I said, "it is good to be home."

He nodded. "Good night."

I hastened from my father's chambers, sent the servants to him as he had commanded, and made my way back upstairs to my rooms.

Phrases that my father had spoken rang tauntingly through my mind, seizing hold of my thoughts and refusing to let them go.

I wanted to deny that the discussion had even taken place. I did not want to admit that my father had told me I should have killed Frodo if I had to, to claim the Ring.

Nor did I want to admit the possibility that he was right, that Gondor might now face no threat at all if only the Ring were in our hands.

I thought, _I failed. Failed to keep the trust that my father and our people placed in me_.

_When Minas Tirith falls, will it be my weakness that sealed her doom_?

Or was there never a chance for anything but failure? Would our doom be just as certain if I carried the Ring now?

If we concealed the Ring in the Citadel or bore it in arms against our Foe, would all paths end in our destruction, just the same?

I strode to the barrel of River water on its table and drew a goblet's worth. Gulping it down, I told myself, _Your father was right in one thing he said, at the least. It is over. And we have no choices left to us. No choice, save to stand our ground and fight_.

_That, at least, is one thing you know you can do_.

I drank another goblet full, then glanced about for the means of carrying more River water with me.

The canteen I had carried with me from Svip's house lay on the chair where I had tossed it earlier that evening, along with the golden belt of Lorien and the grey shadow that was the Elven cloak.

I picked up the cloak, looking at it almost as though I had never seen it before. It occurred to me that I'd forgotten all about the cloak's supposed potential to make one invisible, over these last many days that I had worn it. Not since the swamp, when Svip and I were still hiding from parties of Orcs, had I tried to use the cloak's powers, nor had it seemed to render me invisible to any friend or foe since then.

_I suppose it only works when you actively want it to_, I thought. Swinging it over my shoulders again and fastening its shining beech-leaf shaped brooch, I told myself, _You should wear this cloak the next time you go to council with your father, and see if it saves you from such another conversation_.

I filled the canteen with River water and fastened it to the belt I wore, one of my belts that I had owned for years, leaving the gold belt of the Elves where it lay. _I should give that belt to someone_, I thought. Maybe Svip, since Faramir had said he didn't want it, and since it would assuredly not be a gift welcomed by my father.

At that point I should have been ready to set forth, but I paused and looked again at the barrel of River water. On an impulse, I grabbed an old, worn neckerchief from out of my dresser table, and held it under the barrel's spigot until it was soaked through. This I tied about my neck, stuffing it into the collar of my tunic and hoping it would not be too noticeable.

I did not know if that would be of the slightest help, but it probably could not hurt.

Thus fortified, I set out to inspect the walls.

I half expected to see Svip already asleep in the Fountain as I passed it, but there was no sign of him. He and Pippin must still be about their explorations.

I smiled at the thought of them gallivanting about the Citadel in the dark, much like a certain young pair of Steward's sons in what felt like some long-ago age. Although Svip, of course, could see in the dark, which gave them an advantage over Faramir and me. Not to mention that Pippin and Svip had the Steward's permission for their tour, and did not risk a spanking if they were caught.

And never had any night when we crept from our rooms to explore the Citadel, been as dark a night as this.

On the walls, the Men seemed in good spirits; certainly as good as could be expected. There were grim comments among them at the sight of the enemy's fires, glittering in the unfathomed dark. At one instant those fires would seem far from us still, at the next they seemed as near as an arrow's flight. But amidst the dour muttering on the enemy's approach, were spoken words of more cheer. I heard my own name mentioned several times in cheerful tones, before I drew near enough to a cluster of Guards for them to recognise me and snap to attention. And several times I heard the Men speaking in pride of their Steward's ride to the Harlond, the first time he had ridden from the City in force of arms in nigh upon twenty years.

"The Dark Lord doesn't know who he has to deal with," one Guard declared. "He thought Lord Boromir slain and the Steward in his dotage, or he'd not have dared to try his hand against us. He'll find out differently when the wreck of his army comes straggling back to his wastelands."

"We have not won yet," I admonished the Man, walking up to him and his comrades. "And all of us should know full well that overconfidence can be as fatal as despair. Although," I added, "I would rather hear words of pride than despair, this night."

"What is there to despair of, My Lord?" the Guard persisted stubbornly. "It's the Dark Lord who's been overconfident. How can we fail, with both you and the Lord Steward come back to us again?"

"I hope we will not learn the answer to that," I told him.

On the first wall, above the Great Gate, I found my uncle Imrahil and Húrin of the Keys. Both greeted me warmly and assured me that our preparations were well in hand.

"The meeting with the guildleaders went well," Imrahil reported. "We have the fire-fighting companies formed and ready. The guilds have taken charge of organizing the companies on their own levels, and there are a good number of non-guild members among the citizens volunteering to join them. I believe we will be ready on that front, at least."

My uncle eyed me searchingly, and went on, "You had best betake yourself to your bed, Nephew. Perhaps it's the light, but you look about as tired as your father. We will be ready when they strike. That I promise you. Now get you gone; I do not want to be visiting both of my nephews in the Houses of Healing."

"Perhaps you are right," I admitted, smiling wearily. I rubbed my hand over my neck, where the neckerchief sat almost entirely dried against my skin. "The same goes for you two gentlemen, remember. We do not need our highest commanders dead on their feet from lack of sleep."

"Harken to the boy, dispensing wisdom to his elders," Imrahil jested to Húrin – who, it must be remarked, is only about three years older than I am. "What think you, My Lord Húrin? Will we need to tie him up and haul him bodily to his bed?"

"You can try it if you like, My Lord Prince," Húrin replied. "You're his uncle, so he might spare your life. I value my hide too highly to attempt it."

I bade them farewell and took the long, dark road once more up the Hill of Guard.

There was faint light visible through the window drapes on the ground floor of my townhouse, but I did not stop for another visit with the people of my household. I felt nearly like a ghost as I made my way past my house in the darkness.

Fiercely I assured myself that I was no ghost, not yet. I could not afford to be dead, not at least until I had sent a great many of our enemies before me.

At the Sixth Level, I stopped again at the Houses of Healing. This time there was a clerk at the desk, a different lad from the harried youth I'd encountered earlier. The Houses seemed somewhat restored to their normal peace and calm, though the attendants I passed in the hallways greeted me with troubled eyes and mouths grimly set to hold back words of fear.

The Healers' Assistant who sat at Faramir's bedside rose and curtsied as I stepped into the room. She crossed to me, and reported in hushed tones, "There is little change in his condition, My Lord. He has started speaking more now, in this past hour. But he does not wake. We've succeeded in making him drink, but his fever is yet unabated."

I nodded. "I have a few minutes now to sit with him," I told her. "Do you return in a quarter of an hour."

The woman curtsied again and departed. Once more I sat with my brother, holding his hand and now and again re-dampening the cloth upon his forehead.

I told him all the tidings of cheer that came into my mind, as I watched shadows play on his face from the sallow candlelight. I told him of Imrahil's fire-fighting companies, of the good spirits of our Men upon the walls, of Father's appointment of Svip as my bodyguard and his grant to Svip of the right to sleep in the Fountain of the Tree. Of the words that had passed between our father and me, I did not speak.

Only once did Faramir speak as I sat with him. He twisted his head violently, causing the cloth to slide onto the pillow. As I reached to retrieve the cloth, his fingers suddenly tightened about my other hand, where until that moment they had lain limp and still.

"Boromir," he murmured, eyes still closed. "I saw you dead, Boromir. I saw you." His voice grew louder as his forehead furrowed in pain. "Boromir! Where is your Horn? Where are you going? Boromir!" His head tossed on the pillow, then again his words grew so quiet as to barely be heard. "I saw you dead, Boromir. I saw you."

"I know you did," I said, gripping his hand. "I know it. I'm sorry. I'm not dead now, Faramir. I promise you that. And neither are you. Neither of us is going to die in this battle. Do you hear me? Neither of us will die. I will not allow it. Do you hear me, brother? I'm not letting you die."

His grasp loosened from around my hand, and once more his murmurs faded into silence.

When the attendant returned, she assured me that Faramir would not go unwatched for one moment. I emphasised to her that the Lord Steward and I were both to be notified at once if there were any marked change in his condition, then I set out back to the Citadel.

At the Seventh Gate, the Guards who admitted me spoke in tones more hushed than usual. One of them informed me, "Your friend Lord Svip is asleep in the Fountain, My Lord. We've been trying to keep quiet so as not to wake him up." The Man grinned ruefully and added, "Though I suppose I don't know what we're worried about, since there's fire crackling all around and Orcs howling outside the walls. If he can sleep through that, I guess he can sleep through us talking."

Svip was curled up in the Fountain, sleeping as peacefully as if he were in his own house back at Rauros. He had picked out as his pillow the tiny stone island at the Fountain's centre, where the cascading water droplets fell about him like curtain of Mithril.

I stood watching him for a few moments, then I hastened on.

Sleep was long in coming to me that night, as I suppose should have been no surprise to me. Twice I got up from my bed for a drink of River water, and doused my face and hair in the Anduin's water as well. The comfort of lying in my own bed at long last was more than outweighed by the images that raced through my mind.

I saw enemy troops entrenched before our walls. I saw Faramir's anguished face. I saw hatred and despair blazing in my father's eyes. And I saw Frodo, backing away from me as his eyes widened in horror, and my voice grated out in desperation akin to madness, "It is not yours save by unhappy chance. It might have been mine. It should be mine. Give it to me!"

At last I slept, I know not for how long. I do not remember dreaming, but when I abruptly woke, it seemed at first that my waking reality must be a dream.

By the light of the candle clock in its sconce upon the wall, I saw my father, sitting in one of my armchairs and watching me. There seemed infinite weariness and sorrow in his face as he gazed upon me.

I blinked, believing almost that the vision of my father would vanish. In my first distant thoughts at the edges of sleep, I thought that this must be the first time my father had watched me sleep since I was wounded on the Cair Andros Campaign at fifteen years of age. Or at any rate, I knew of no other time since then.

The demands of waking life came back to me in a rush. I sat up, ready to leap from my bed.

"Has something happened to Faramir?" I blurted. "Is his condition worsened?"

"No. No," my father said quietly, waving his hand for me to lie back down. "His condition seems unchanged." A sardonic note entered my father's voice, as he added, "I have just come from visiting him, so you need not give me another lecture just yet on how I care nothing for my younger son."

"Yes, sir," I said. We sat silent for a moment, then I tried again. "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

My father studied me a long time before answering. The grief that trembled in his voice wrenched my heart as I heard it.

He said slowly, "If you were not my son, if you were some delusion sent of our Enemy, I could not count on you to tell me so. Could I?"

"No, sir," I admitted. "I suppose not."

"You would look the same. You would sound the same. And when I asked you if you were real, you would give me the same answers. Is that not so?"

"It is true, sir," I said. "And there is nothing I can say to you, that the illusion of me would not also say. Although," I added, "I doubt that our Enemy has imagination enough to think up something like Svip."

The Steward smiled faintly. "In that," he said, "I believe you are probably right."

He gave a weary shake of his head, and got to his feet. "I'm sorry to have wakened you," he said.

For some moments more he stood watching me. Then he flung back the heavy cloak he wore over his robes. He reached for some object that hung from a leathern belt across his shoulder, and had lain across his back, concealed in the folds of his cloak.

"I should have returned this to you sooner," he said, pulling the belt over his head. "I have kept it with me since Anduin brought it to our shore. If you are truly returned to me, then I need it no longer."

I stared, then I hastily got out of bed. And still I stared, at a loss entirely for the words that I should say.

My father held out to me the Horn of Gondor. It glimmered in his hands, as pure and shining as moonlight.

The two halves of the cloven Horn were held together with a strap of silver-bound leather, that in turn attached to the baldric by which my father had worn it. I took the horn in my hands. As I ran my fingers over the carvings that were so familiar to me, I felt for a moment perilously close to tears. Although laughter, too, was not far off, as I thought of the image we must make, the Lord Steward formally presenting the Horn of Gondor to his heir who stood there clad in nightshirt and naked feet.

"I thank you, My Lord," I said. "And I ask your pardon for my failure to bring the Horn home safe and whole."

"You have come home," my father said firmly. "That is what matters." He glanced down at the Horn, and continued, "The Horn of Gondor will not sound again. We will have another made. If we live."

"Yes, sir," I said. "We will."

"I should not have disturbed you," he said then, with an effort at sounding brusque and matter-of-fact. "Go back to bed, Boromir. Good night."

"Good night, My Lord," I answered, to his rapidly departing back. As the door closed behind him, I stood there still, marvelling at the strangeness of things and wondering what on earth I should do with the Horn.

There was no sense in carrying the broken Horn with me the next day, I supposed, yet neither did I feel right about leaving it just lying around in my room.

I told myself that if I lived through the battle ahead I would take the Horn to the Stewards' House in the Mansions of the Dead, and leave it to rest in honour with our ancestors. But for now, any such gesture would have to wait. I set the Horn down carefully on the table next to the barrel of River water, and made haste to climb back into my bed.

When I woke again, the candle clock told me it lacked about an hour till dawn. Or until what would have been the dawn, in any other days but these.

I dressed swiftly, after the now usual drinking and washing with my supply of River water. This time I wore a shirt of chain mail beneath my tunics, but I did not forgo my other, more mystical piece of armour, in the shape of the neckerchief soaked in Anduin's water.

Near the door to my father's chambers, I found Pippin, in one of the chairs usually occupied by those awaiting admittance to audience with the Lord Steward. The guards at either side of the door stood to attention, seemingly paying no notice to the young Hobbit – not that I blamed them for that, as the Steward did not take kindly to conversations outside his door in the wee hours of the morning. Pippin sat hunched forward, staring dejectedly at his feet, which were dangling a good ways off the floor. As I approached, he looked up and then jumped down from the chair, his face brightening in delight.

"Good morning, Pippin," I greeted him. "My father's not called on you to attend him yet?"

"Not yet. But I couldn't sleep."

"You too?" I smiled down at him, and said, "I'm going to take a walk on the White Tower. Would you care to accompany me?"

The Hobbit gave a worried frown. "But if your father sends for me …"

"I will shield you from his wrath."

I walked over to the guards, and informed them, "If the Lord Steward sends for Master Peregrin before he returns, you may report that I requested him to accompany me to the White Tower. There is no blame to be placed on the _Perian_ or on you."

"Yes, My Lord," the guards replied, not looking entirely comfortable at the prospect of making that report to the Lord of Gondor.

"Won't he be angry with you?" Pippin asked, as we set out down the corridor and he hurried to keep up with me.

"Well, if he is, he'll only say something snide. That's the advantage of being the favourite son _and_ coming back from the dead. I can probably get away with just about anything, now."

As we stepped from the King's House into the still and heavy air, I asked, "How went your tour of the Citadel with Svip?"

"It went well, I think," Pippin replied, "though he did give me a fright a few times when he climbed onto the wall and I thought he'd fall off, and when he started poking into places I thought we weren't supposed to go."

I chuckled. "Now you know what it felt like, travelling with you all the way from Rivendell."

"I am _not_ like that!" Pippin protested. "I don't stick my nose into _everything_ I see."

"We'll ask Merry and see what he has to say about that."

We went in by the north door of the White Tower, bypassing the Tower Hall and starting up the thousand spiralling stairs.

"Have you been up here before?" I asked. I wondered if I should offer to carry Pippin as I saw him clambering over stairs decidedly too far apart for him to climb with ease, but I figured that he would probably be offended.

"Not up to the top," he said. "I've been to your father's chamber above the guard room, but not any higher. Svip wanted to climb up here last night, but the guards said your father was in his private chambers at the top of the tower and he wasn't to be disturbed."

Past guard rooms, my father's office, conference chambers and guest rooms we climbed, until at last we reached the final guard room below the battlement. The guard there tapped the butt of his spear against the trap door in the signal that those approaching were friends, then I started up the steep ladder-like set of stairs to the trap door, Pippin scrambling behind me.

Out on the battlement, the air seemed nearly as still as it had at the foot of the tower, though a fitful attempt at a breeze crept up every now and again. The white banner of the Stewards hung limply from its pole at the tower's peak, the breeze tugging slightly at its corners, but not building up enough strength to bear our banner aloft.

The guard posted on the battlement hastened to me and saluted. "Not much to report, My Lord," he said. "But the fires have spread. You can see them now all the way from the Rammas to maybe the crossroads at the White Tree Inn, though it's hard to say for certain in this dark."

"Has the Lord my father been here during your shift?" I inquired.

"Yes, My Lord. For about six hours, all told. He descended once during the middle watch, then he returned and remained in his chamber until about an hour ago."

"Damnation," I muttered. "Did he not get any sleep at all?"

"I couldn't tell you that, My Lord. He has been here most nights for these last weeks, ever since – ever since the word came of your death, sir."

I scowled with dislike at the smaller extension of the tower built atop the battlement, where my father was wont to shut himself up from the world. He had spent most of his nights up here in the year after my mother died. It seemed now that he'd done the same when I died, as well.

"Well, if he's not here now, will you venture into his eyrie and fetch forth a stool for Master Peregrin to stand upon? You'll need something to help you see over the parapet," I added to Pippin. "I don't want you climbing around and giving me fits, the way Svip was doing to you."

Having brought the stool, the guard retreated to a respectful distance, leaving Pippin and me to gaze over the wall into blackness dotted with flame.

For a while, we did not speak. From the plains far below, came an undertone of sound as of distant river rapids, the voices of our foe camped beyond the White City's walls.

"I try to have a few minutes up here every morning, when I'm at home," I commented to Pippin, my voice sounding unnaturally loud to me in the thick, motionless air. "I'm sorry there won't be a sunrise for you to see today."

"I did see the sunrise over the City once," he said, "the morning Gandalf and I got here. It was only the next day that – that the dark came."

I turned my back on our invisible plains and leaned against the parapet, studying my friend.

"Have you got taller, Pippin?" I asked him suddenly. "I don't just mean because you're standing on a stool. I've been thinking it since I first saw you yesterday. I couldn't think what was different about you at first, but I'm sure of it now; you're an inch or two taller than you used to be."

The Hobbit nodded. "That's what Legolas and Gimli said, too. Legolas said it must be caused by the Entish draughts we had from Treebeard."

I raised my eyebrows. "Entish?" I echoed. "I believe you have a tale or two to tell me, Master Hobbit. You've heard a good part of my tale from Svip, but I've yet to hear a word of yours."

Pippin looked bashful and protested that Merry would tell the story much better than he could. But none of the Hobbits that I have met can resist the telling of tales, once one gets them started. He sat down on the stool and I took a seat on the battlement floor beside him, and Peregrin Took launched into a story that, I thought, made my return home sound straight-forward and almost boring.

The tale is recorded elsewhere, I believe, in Pippin's own memoirs and those of Merry. With anger, wonder and not a little laughter, I listened as Pippin recounted their trials at the hands of Saruman's Orcs, their hair's-breadth escape into the Forest of Fangorn, their meetings with the legendary masters of those woods, and the spectacular, unlooked-for fall of the Wizard of Orthanc. When at last he told of their brief reunion with Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn, I found that I was relieved and gladdened to hear news of all of them – although in the case of Aragorn, my gladness was tempered with the thought that I'd be happier still to hear of his good health and safety if he would just go home to the north and not bother bearing his famous sword to Minas Tirith's rescue. He was too late to reach us now, in any case, unless the sword of Elendil gave him speed beyond that of mortals, and the strength of several thousand Men.

The thought of Aragorn recalled my mind unpleasantly to my discussion with my father. I got to my feet and leaned on the parapet again, staring out to where the black spine of the Ephel Duath was just starting to become visible in a sickly hint of light.

Pippin jumped up to stand on the stool. In the corner of my eye, I could see him looking at me hesitantly, as if about to ask me what was wrong. Then, giving up on that notion, he propped his elbows on the parapet, planted his chin in his hands and gazed out.

"There's a bit of light over there," Pippin observed as the silence grew heavy between us. "You can start to see the mountains."

"Yes," I said. Loathing to think of what my next words might do to our friendship, I turned to him and asked, "Have you and Merry been told of what I did to Frodo? And what I tried to do?"

He nodded sombrely. "Legolas and Gimli told us. We only talked of it a little. They said they'd just learned recently themselves, when Strider and Gandalf were talking in Fangorn Forest."

"Then do you not hate me, Master Peregrin?" I tried to take refuge in anger and bitterness as I asked it, but my chief emotion in that moment was fear.

Pippin looked shocked. "Of course not!" he exclaimed. "How could I? It was the Ring that did it, Boromir. It wasn't you."

"That's a very pretty story," I said. "It would be even better if it were true. But it is not. It would be all too easy for me to blame the Ring. But it was I who did it. I thought that the Ring might save my people. It meant so much to me, that nothing else had any meaning. Not loyalty, or friendship, or my sworn word. There was nothing else. It led me to betray all of you. But it was I who betrayed you, not the Ring."

"That's not true," Pippin argued. "If that were all you cared about, you'd have gone after Frodo and – and not stopped till you'd got the Ring. No matter what. But you didn't. You didn't. You came back to save us."

I had to smile at the young Hobbit's earnest defence of me to myself. "I didn't save you, if you'll remember," I pointed out.

"Well, it wasn't for want of trying!" he snapped. "No one else could have done more than you did. Merry and I aren't complaining. And I don't want to hear you say any more about it! You've come back to all of us again and you're not going to spoil it by moping around about what an awful person you are! I won't stand for it!"

His tirade ran down and he clamped his mouth shut. The Hobbit turned away from me and leaned on the parapet, glaring out into the murk.

"Thank you, Pippin," I said, smiling and wondering what I had done to deserve such stalwart friends.

He looked up at me cautiously, with a rueful hint of a smile. "Now you're laughing at me," he accused.

"No," I told him. "I'm not."

We stood there in silence that no longer felt heavy, as morning, or its dim shadow, stole across the plain. And as the ghost of the light crept upon the Pelennor, we had our first true sight of the host our Foe had hurled upon us.

Even as the light spread, the plain was black with their marching companies. Their tents, too numerous to count, sprouted across our fields, like some loathsome fungus growth that would drain the life from all other growing things.

"The day's come, Pippin," I said.


	15. Chapter Fifteen: The Battle of Minas Tir...

Author's Note (September 2003): Hello, all! And the most massive apologies to anyone who still wants to read this, and has been waiting four months for the next update! The summer has been crazy – and this has not been an easy chapter. I dunno, I guess writing about doom and horror threatening the White City just isn't a cheerful process! Dang, it's been so long since I started this, I'm not even sure I remember what's in this chapter …

Oh, as mentioned before, I am not a poet. So the songs that appear partway through the chapter are no creation of mine; they belong solely to the members of Silly Wizard. All appropriate acknowledgements to them, and no infringements intended.

Anyway, hopefully the next chapter will proceed more smoothly and swiftly than this one. Summer is coming to an end, thank goodness, so maybe life will become easier to deal with. And there's some fun stuff coming up in the chapter after this one … including meetings with a few more of our favourite _Lord of the Rings_ characters …

Thanks for your patience, and thanks again for reading!

_Chapter Fifteen: The Battle of Minas Tirith (Part One)_

I glanced at Pippin, staring out upon the black and scarlet tents of our enemies.

He said in a tense, quiet voice, "There are a lot of them."

"Yes. There are." For a moment, I pondered if I should try and say something cheering, such as, _And there are a lot of us, as well_. But, I told myself, Pippin did not need me patronizing him. I was certain he knew as well as I how grim our prospects were. And I was sure he knew also that we had no choice left us now but to stand our ground, to wait, and when the foe came within our grasp, to fight.

As another moment passed, I studied the young Hobbit's face, his mouth set in a determined line as if to ward off any trembling or words of fear.

I felt a rush of anger at the fates and the beings whose combined forces had brought Pippin to this time and place. In my thoughts I roundly cursed Mithrandir for bringing him here, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli for not stopping the Wizard from doing so, Lord Elrond for not putting his foot down and insisting that Pippin and Merry remain in Rivendell, even Frodo for not managing to sneak out of the Shire without the youngsters on his trail.

_Damn it all_, I thought. _He should be home right now hunting mushrooms, not standing in a City of Men that is about to enter its death throes_.

_And you_, I commanded myself, _should bloody well not be thinking like that_.

_The defences will hold. They will hold, because they must_.

"We had best get down there," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "My father is probably hunting us already."

Pippin hopped down from the stool. "I thought you said you wouldn't get in trouble," he said, frowning.

"I won't," I answered. "But that doesn't mean I won't have to listen to him lambast my character six ways from Valanya."

As I pulled open the trap door, the guard hastened to us from where he had posted himself out of hearing of our conversation. He bowed to me in salute. "Good luck to you, My Lord," he said.

"Aye." I nodded. "To all of us."

Speeding down the seemingly endless steps, I automatically took myself to task for cooling my heels atop the Tower while the Dark Lord's minions closed in about us. Though realistically, I argued, what, in fact, could I usefully have been doing? Until the enemy came within range of our archers and siege engines, there was little enough that any of us could do save to fight our fear and impatience, and wait.

My first thought when at last we emerged at the White Tower's foot was to seek out Svip, that I might hold to my promise not to let him miss anything. With Pippin at my heels, I circumnavigated the Tower and hurried into the Court of the Fountain.

Far from missing out on the morning's developments, we found our friend the water creature precisely in the thick of them.

The torchlight and the murk of the morn revealed to us an assemblage made up of the greatest Lords of Gondor. Standing in consultation together on the greensward by the Fountain were my father, the Prince my uncle, Duinhir of Morthond, Forlong of Lossarnach, Húrin Keeper of the Keys, and Mithrandir.

As we made our way toward them, I noted a second, smaller group at the Fountain's edge. Svip stood upon the Fountain wall, his arms stuck out from his sides and a nervous, eager expression on his face. At either side of him stood a page of my father's household. The young Men pulled a black and silver tunic down over Svip's head, arranging it over a shirt of chain mail into which they must already have assisted him.

Svip broke into a grin at the sight of me, and jumped down from the wall. He would have run to me, but one of the pages bowed and said something to him, holding out a belt and sword.

Svip paused to let the pages help him once more, and my father hailed me, waving me over to join the assembled lords.

"There you are, Boromir," he said. "Perhaps the next time, you will ask permission before spiriting away my Esquire."

Coming from my father, that was the mildest possible reproof, spoken from habit rather than anger. I bowed to him. "Yes, sir. Good morning to you, My Lords," I added.

As the lords greeted me in reply, I was struck by how vastly improved my father seemed from only the night before.

The impending assault upon us seemed to have restored his energy and strength. And it appeared to have put him in better spirits than I had seen him in for many a year.

This morn, the Lord Steward stood straight and tall. His silver mail shirt gleamed where it showed beneath his tunic at wrists and throat. One gauntleted hand was planted on his belt, the other rested upon the hilt of his sword. All his age and care seemed vanished, leaving the indomitable figure who ruled my earliest memories, my glorious father who could accomplish everything.

My father was saying, "It appears, then, that we are as ready as we are ever like to be. My Lords of Morthond and Lossarnach, I thank you for your council. You may join your Men upon the walls. Boromir, Húrin, Imrahil: at least until the assault begins in earnest, I believe that our most useful role will be to go forth among the Men, that they may know their commanders are with them and will share all their fortunes, for good or ill."

The Steward cast a glance at Mithrandir, who stood in apparent contemplation, his face half hidden in the shadow of his hat.

"There may be some," my father went on pointedly, "who expect the Steward of Gondor to immure himself in the Tower Hall, brooding upon doom and shadows. Friend and foe alike will learn that this expectation is false, and will see that Gondor's Steward stands shoulder to shoulder with his Men through what e'er may betide us."

The Wizard bowed his head, unreadable eyes glittering out of the shadow. "I will rejoice to see it, My Lord Steward," he replied, in mild tones that yet revealed the one-upmanship between them if one knew to listen for it. "As will all of your people."

Mithrandir took a step closer to us. His white robes shone like the sun piercing through cloud as his tattered cloak parted and then fell closed again.

"If you do not object, My Lord," he continued, "I, too, would join the defenders along the White City's walls. The flame of Anor has power to hold at bay that fear upon which our foe relies as his deadliest weapon. I will walk amid the defenders of Minas Tirith, and do what I may to deflect that weapon from their hearts."

My father shot Mithrandir his standard look of dislike, which the Wizard serenely ignored.

"Let us hope," the Steward rejoined, "that the flame of Anor's efficacy is not weakened by the fact that a good many of our Men view you as the harbinger of doom. It will somewhat defeat your purpose, if you relieve their fear of our enemy merely to replace it with fear of yourself."

Mithrandir bowed and said nothing, though I thought I heard a snort of impatience from the old Wizard as he held back the words he would like to have said.

With sardonic eye, the Steward turned to the Prince his brother-in-law. "At least we may do something to counterbalance their fears, if the Grey Wanderer walks among them at the side of Imrahil the Fair. What say you, My Lord Prince? Will you undertake your rounds of the City with Lord Mithrandir, that the glory of the Swan Knights may lighten the pall of the Grey Pilgrim's presence?"

My uncle looked as though he would dearly love to rebuke the Steward for speaking so rudely of Mithrandir in the Wizard's presence. With a sigh, Imrahil restrained himself.

"Willingly, My Lord," he said, bowing. "I will be glad of Lord Mithrandir's company, if he has no objection to mine."

As Mithrandir bowed to the Prince in turn, my father went on. "You will oblige me enormously, Imrahil, if you keep the Lord Mithrandir as far from me as possible. I assure you, I can keep my spirits in fighting trim with no assistance from the flame of Anor."

Imrahil cast an apologetic grimace at Mithrandir. "I will do my best, sir," the Prince replied.

_If I do not put in my oar_, I thought, _they may keep sniping and bowing at each other all the morn_. I took my own turn at bowing to my father, and said, "My Lord, I would beg a boon of you. I ask that you grant me command of the Great Gate. It is there that our foe must throw his greatest strength. He has attempted the assault of Minas Tirith before, in long years past. I doubt not that he recalls our indomitable walls, and that he knows as well as we that he must take the Gate if ever the City is to fall into his hands."

My father frowned. I was certain that if I gave him the chance to speak then, he would deny my request.

It was time, I judged, to try just how far I could play upon his sensibilities by again bringing up the topic of my return from the dead.

I said, "Sir, in those days I spent with Svip beneath the Rauros Falls, I despaired when first I learned that the conditions of my return meant I could no longer lead our Men against the darkness – unless the darkness should conveniently locate itself within a few miles of the River. I was pulled from out of that despair when I realised that the Great Gate of our City is near enough to Anduin for me to make my stand there. At the Gate, I may yet accomplish deeds that will play their role in saving our City and our nation. My Lord, I vowed then at Rauros that if I reached home in time, I would seek command of the Gate. Grant my request, My Lord. I will hold the Gate against all enemies. The Great Gate will hold, and Minas Tirith will not fall."

I caught sight of troubled scowls both from my uncle and from Mithrandir. No doubt, they were thinking that I would need more than grandiloquent words to hold the Gate against the Dark Lord's legions. And in that, of course, they were perfectly right.

My valorous boast did seem to have swayed my father. He frowned yet, eyeing me again with a look of dread and doubt. Then he took a tighter grip on his sword hilt, and spoke, banishing all fears from his face and voice.

"Your request is granted, my son," he declared. "I can think of none better fitted to hold the survival of our nation in his hand."

_Wonderful_, I thought. _I know I just asked for it, but it does sound bloody awful when you put it like that!_

Awful or not, there was no getting out of it now.

"I thank you, My Lord," I said, with another bow.

The Steward asked me, "Are there particular troops that you would request be stationed under your command?"

I caught sight of the now fully armed and armoured Svip, manoeuvring his way through the Men about us to reach my side. There was no way that I could stop Svip from joining me at the Gate, I knew. It was as hopeless a wish as my longing to get Pippin out of harm's way.

I disliked mightily to think of Svip facing the strain and fear of this siege. But if there was no escaping that, then at least I could see to it that he awaited the onslaught in the company of friends.

"Yes, sir," I answered. "I ask for Captain Cirion's Company of Rangers."

"Very well." He turned to one of the orderlies who stood at a respectful distance from our conference. "Relay my order to Captain Cirion: he and his Men are re-assigned to the Great Gate under Lord Boromir's command."

As the orderly bowed and departed, my father continued, "If there is no further discussion, gentlemen, let us be about our duties. Húrin, you will accompany me. You as well, my young esquire," he added, turning with a wintry smile to Pippin, who had been unobtrusively lingering at the edge of the group. The Hobbit stood up straighter and strove not to look uncomfortable as once more all eyes turned upon him.

The Steward gripped Pippin's shoulder, his smile growing more kindly as he met his esquire's troubled gaze. "We will await the darkness together, Master Hobbit," he said. "Perhaps we will find time for you to teach me those songs of your Shire of which we have spoken."

"If it pleases you, My Lord," Pippin replied, with a sickly smile that seemed to say he would rather be out on the battlefield this instant than be ordered to sing for the Steward of Gondor.

Our council began to disperse. My uncle held out his hand to me. As we shook hands, he observed with his rueful grin, "You are given all the easy jobs, Nephew. You have only to hold the Great Gate against all the minions of Mordor. _I _have to see to it that the Steward and the Wizard are never on the same level of the City."

"I have faith in you, Uncle," I assured him. "You will be equal to the task."

Mithrandir added wryly, raising one bushy eyebrow, "I will strive not to make the charge too onerous, Lord Prince. Minas Tirith is large. The Steward and I should be able to avoid tripping over each other."

My uncle and I smiled at each other, the smiles speaking all the words of love, trust and hope that one never manages to say even when battle is swift approaching and any words not said may be left forever unspoken.

"Uncle …" I began, "Mithrandir … will you visit the Houses of Healing upon your rounds, when you can, and check in on Faramir? And let me know how he fares?"

"We will," Imrahil promised.

"I can be at the Gate with you, can't I?" Svip piped up worriedly. "You're not going to try and make me stay out of danger?"

"I'm not going to try it," I told him. "After all, you're my bodyguard, remember?"

Svip grinned a little, casting a self-conscious glance down at his new livery. The black tunic, I saw now, was blazoned with the emblem of my household, a hunting horn wrought in cloth of mithril.

Svip's tunic summoned a snatch of memory to my mind, and with it, a whisper of foreboding. I thought of the dream I had dreamt at the Causeway Forts, of Svip clad in black and silver, kneeling beside a weeping Man at a tomb in the House of the Stewards.

I felt a moment's dread as I wondered if that were merely a dream, or a vision like those of my brother and our father.

Vision or dream, I told myself, there was nothing that I could do about it.

I noticed my father watching me, with Pippin stood nervously at his side. It was a surprise to me that the Steward had waited to exchange any further words, instead of setting forth as soon as he'd decreed that our conference was ended. Though in the circumstances, I told myself, I should probably not be surprised if he displayed a bit more fatherly concern than usual.

With a last nod to Imrahil and Mithrandir, I stepped over to the Steward and the Hobbit.

My father eyed me once more with a strange, dread-filled expression. I could not help grimly wondering if he'd had some vision of the battle to come, which told him that it would be our last.

As I crossed to him, he forced a thin smile onto his face, and thrust out his hand. His grip on my hand was as firm as ever.

"I will see you later, then, sir," I said, with all the cheerfulness that I could muster. "And you as well, Pippin."

The Hobbit managed an unhappy little smile, and my father nodded briskly. "I will see you at the Gate," he said.

He turned on his heel and strode for the gate to the Citadel, Pippin scurrying to keep up with him and Húrin and a detachment of the Tower Guard falling into step behind.

I suppressed a sigh as I watched them go.

It was time to go ourselves, I knew. But now that I had gained what I sought, I felt a heavy reluctance to take up my post at the Gate.

I chid myself for it. But the thought still whispered through my mind that this was indeed our last stand. And that when I took my place at the White City's Gate, the last chapter of the tale would commence, for our family and our City and for all of Gondor.

I scratched irritably at my collarbone, where the neckerchief I'd dunked in Anduin's water lay nearly dried against my skin. The last dampness from the River water blended with prickles of sweat called forth by the hot, muggy air of the morn.

As I scratched my neck, I noted Svip pointedly watching my every move.

_I had better be certain I've a supply of River water handy_, I told myself. _Svip will hound me without mercy if I do not_.

I summoned one of the waiting orderlies. "Send to my town house," I commanded. "Give the seneschal my order: a barrel of the water that arrived yesterday is to be sent at once to the guardhouse at the Great Gate."

"Yes, My Lord."

"There, you see, Svip," I remarked as the orderly took his leave. "I _do_ remember to look after myself, every now and then."

He gave me a doubt-laden look. "Your father didn't look like he thinks so," Svip said.

"Aye, well," I shrugged, "he worries about me, no matter what." I cast a sidelong glance down at Svip as I added, "Like certain other persons that I could mention."

I could afford to delay no longer. Every moment that I lingered here only made it the harder to do what I must.

"Shall we go, Svip?" I said with strained lightness. As I strode past the Fountain and the Tree, with Svip hurrying beside me, I forced myself not to stop to gaze at the Tree as though I were bidding it my farewells. But still I stared at the White Tree in that moment as we passed it, carving the image of it in my memory. The water and leafless branches bore a reddish hue in the torchlight and the glow from the enemy's fires, as if the clear water of the Fountain were transformed into blood.

Svip took refuge in chatter as we made our way from the Citadel. I was grateful for his words that gave me something on which to focus other than peril and doom.

"It was nice of your father to have the tunic and armour made for me, wasn't it? He said it would have taken too long to have a helmet forged for me, one that would fit right, anyway. It wasn't that hard to make the tunic and chain mail, but my head's so differently shaped from Men's, the helmet would've taken a lot longer."

Svip reached up and tugged at the chain mail coif he was wearing, which he had shoved off his head to lie hanging down his back. "He said I should wear this hood instead, but I hope I don't have to, much. It itches. I feel like I can't hear right with it on, too. Did it take you long to get used to wearing armour? Can you hear all right with your helmet on? Your father had his Men cut down my belt for me, too," Svip sped on, gesturing to the now perfectly-fitted sword belt that he'd worn on our journey from Rauros Falls. "It's nice not to have to double it around me any more. The chain mail's not too bad, is it? I thought a shirt of it would be a lot heavier. I don't think I'd like to go swimming in it, though."

"No," I agreed, when Svip's words temporarily ran down. "It can be done. I've done it. But I wouldn't recommend it to you, if you can avoid it."

We took the road down the Hill of Guard, pausing at the gates to confer with the commanders of each Level. My own observations and the reports I received led me to agree with the summation I'd heard my father give as I joined the morning's council. We were ready – as ready as we were ever like to be.

At the Seventh and Sixth Levels, the Guards of the Citadel garrisoned the walls. The City Guard manned the walls of the Fifth and Fourth Levels, and below were stationed all the remnants of our armies drawn back from Anórien and Ithilien, and the troops from the Southern Fiefdoms.

The Men of Morthond, justly famed for their skill in archery, were among those posted on the walls of the Third and Second Circles, for of all of us, there was greatest likelihood that their shots would tell against the enemy from even the higher walls. On the first wall of our City, stood hardened veterans from the garrisons of Gondor's northern marches, and the warriors of Dol Amroth.

The Swan Knights' steeds waited in readiness in the First Circle, near at hand along Lampwrights' Street where the courtyard and outbuildings of the Brewers' Guildhouse had been converted into temporary stables. Should the battle reach the point in which another sortie would serve us, then what few cavalry we had would be ready. But I doubt that many among us truly believed Gondor's cavalry would again ride forth from the City's Gate.

Those commanding the higher levels, as a Man, groused of their ill fortune at being stationed too high upon the Hill of Guard to have a hand in the fighting. On learning that I'd secured the Great Gate's command for myself, several complained of my hogging the fun and glory, and offered to swap places with me.

Jestingly we assured each other that I would have the foe finished off ere nuncheon. The Men above would have naught to do but watch.

None of us spoke the thought that those stationed on the upper levels were like to have fighting enough of their own, when the Gate of Minas Tirith fell.

On the wall between the Great Gate's turrets Cirion and his Rangers awaited us. Svip broke into a beaming smile at the sight of them and would have run at once to our comrades, but he remembered at the last instant to ask his commander's permission first. He began, "Is it all right if I –"

I nodded assent, and he raced over to the parapet, where Holgar, Buslai and Finn, leaning against the embrasures, grinned and bowed at his approach. At a more dignified pace I followed, crossing to Captain Cirion who stood by the embrasure directly above the midpoint of the Gate.

"Is anything going on out there, Captain?" I inquired, as he saluted.

Cirion scowled. "Nothing that we can do aught about, My Lord," he answered sourly.

The two of us turned to gaze over the parapet. The Ranger Captain added in a mutter, "I would be deeply obliged if someone could inform me what in blazes they are actually _doing_ out there."

We frowned out upon the plains.

Cirion's question, I thought, was a good one. The enemy's activities, for the moment, looked almost entirely mysterious.

Through the ruddy haze I saw companies of Orcs digging. It seemed that they were digging trenches, paralleling the City's wall in a massive arc that extended as far as I could see in either direction. The trenches, I judged, were just outside the range of our archers, even the celebrated bowmen of Morthond.

Perhaps, then, this great arc of trenches was planned as a base camp from which they would extend further trenches toward us, that their troops might advance in relative shelter, under lesser peril from archers and catapults than did they march upon us across the open ground.

Yet it made no sense. It was sheer foolery, if the Orcs, Southrons and Easterlings believed that the meagre shelter of those trenches would save them from the bombardment of arrows and catapult shot. Some slight protection it might afford them, but never enough.

Most of the fires that we had seen throughout the night, charting their army's progress as for sheer brutal pleasure they set ablaze each farmstead and field and hamlet along their path, had by now guttered out. Fires still burned without our walls, but these fires were of a different stamp.

At points here and there along their great ring of trenches, it seemed that the trenches themselves had been set alight. How, I could not say. Perhaps with that same black oil they used for their incendiary missiles, if they had vast supplies of it to pour into the trenches and then ignite.

_Yet why would they do so_? I argued to myself.

There was no need to light their ring of trenches as greater protection against us. We had no means of reaching them, fire or no fire. And assuredly, if they did plan to extend the trenches toward our wall, they could not then line _those_ trenches with fire. They would only render the trenches unusable for their soldiers. With all of their black arts, I had seen no sign that the Dark Lord and his henchmen had the power to make their Orcs and wild Men invulnerable to fire.

"They seek to terrify us," I hazarded finally, voicing the only theory that I could summon up. "It is to wear down our nerves, nothing else. They think to make us quake in our boots, with the vision of our City encircled by flame."

Cirion gave an expressive snort. "They will need to think up something better than that. If a circle of fire is the most terrorizing thing they can think of, I would we had known that sooner. We could have taken this war to them and conquered all Mordor in a month, if all we needed do was light a few fires."

I forced a smile, though the puzzle of the fiery trenches troubled me more than I cared to acknowledge. Some other devilry, I feared, did indeed lie behind this tactic of theirs, yet I was damned if I could see what it might be. I said, hoping to hide my dread in my words, "Thinking has never been the Orcs' strong point, Captain. I suppose that we cannot blame them if their strategies are less than legendary."

The Captain did not look convinced. I was as little convinced myself. Thick-witted Orcs might make up a sizeable percentage of their force, but it was no Orc chieftain or brigand king who commanded them. For Sauron and his captains, this assault was the work of centuries. We could not afford to hope that they would blunder into it like thugs who thought merely to make faces at us and frighten us into surrender.

I scratched absently again at my now-dry neckerchief, then noticed what I was doing. It was time and past, I thought, that I allowed myself a drink of River water. I took a draught from my canteen. Frowning as I re-corked it, I said, "One thing, at least, they have accomplished, and that is to remind us of their missiles of fire. Send a messenger, Captain, to the guildsmen commanding the fire-fighting crews on each level. We must be sure that they have been informed of these incendiary missiles, and the peril of the oil which fuels them."

_Little good though that may do_, I added glumly to myself. Knowing the missiles' composition would not give our Men the power to stop the buildings of the City from catching fire. But it would aid morale, at the least, if the fire-fighters were not taken by surprise, and the knowledge might save a Man or two from injury by burning oil. In our present circumstances, I told myself, that must be good enough.

I scowled out at the digging Orc companies for some minutes more, then restlessly I set out along the wall.

Young Holgar, Finn and Buslai broke off their conversation with Svip as I approached, and bowed to me in salute. They and the water being, I guessed, had been discussing the merits of different styles of helmets, and the Men had been letting Svip try on each of theirs for comparison. Holgar and Buslai were bare-headed, Holgar with his helmet in his hands, and Buslai's helmet sliding about precariously atop Svip's head.

"The armourers should have time to make a helmet for you when this battle is over, Svip," I said. "If you haven't got too sick of wearing armour by that time."

Grinning, Svip doffed his oversized headgear and handed it back up to Buslai. "It's like wearing a cauldron," opined Svip. "A heavy cauldron. No wonder Men have thick necks, or they'd snap the first time you put on a helmet."

"That's just Buslai," Finn told him. "He's got the thickest neck in Gondor, so he got the extra-heavy helmet."

"How fares it with you, gentlemen?" I asked, as Buslai snorted with laughter and donned the helmet in question. "Buslai, have you seen your father since our return?"

"Aye, My Lord. I was able to spend last night at home. Though I'd have got more sleep if I'd stayed in barracks; we were up talking for most of the night."

"And you, Finn? I trust your family made it safely out of the City?"

"Yes, sir. My wife left a letter for me; they've gone to her parents' place in Lossarnach. She had the boys write letters, too – well, _draw_ letters, but I'm pretty sure Thorfinn's is a picture of them at their grandparents' house, and Rognvald's is of when we all come back to Minas Tirith."

He smiled wistfully and shook his head. "First time I've ever come home to an empty house. Seemed stranger even than the City being so empty. Simbelmynë cleaned the place from cellar to gable before they left, and she baked a Lithe-day's worth of pies and left them in the larder for me with little notes telling the dates each one was baked." The Ranger sighed. "I took a few of the pies over to our neighbour's house, and he had just about everyone who's left on the Second Level 'round for the daymeal, to welcome me home. It didn't seem right eating at home by myself – I didn't want to risk dirtying up Simbelmynë's kitchen so soon, either."

I had noticed young Holgar starting to look more and more dejected as his fellow Rangers spoke of their families. Remembering that Holgar had no family in the City, and that his home in North Anórien was like as not over-run by the enemy, I sought for some means of distracting the boy from thoughts of gloom.

"Holgar," I said, "do you go with Svip and find something to help him see over the parapet. The Gate guardhouse should have some stool or bench that will serve the purpose."

The young Man forced a smile, and gave Svip his helmet to try on as the two of them set out.

When they had vanished down the stairwell, Finn said quietly, "Holgar spent most of the night in the Houses of Healing, My Lord, keeping vigil over Thorolf."

"Is Thorolf's condition worsened?" I asked, thinking grimly of the report that the Men in this so-called dark sleep were sinking into death one by one.

"He's not talking in his sleep any more, Holgar told us," replied Buslai. "They say that's what is happening to the ones who die of this. They are falling into silence before the end."

I nodded, seeing Faramir's still, pallid face and feeling the burning heat of his skin. I gripped the embrasure before me as I stared at the smoky dusk of the Pelennor and strove to put the images from my mind.

"My Lord," Buslai Son of Brynjolf ventured tentatively, "if you don't mind my asking, sir … Have you told the Lord your father of your return from the dead?"

I turned to look at him, away from the fire-pocked plains and the visions of my brother's face.

"We spoke of it last night," I answered. "Not that I really had the choice to conceal it from him. He knew of my death from rumour, the report of a witness and from my brother's vision. And it is no easy task to keep anything secret from my father." I studied young Buslai's frowning visage, and asked, "You have not told your father of your death and return?"

"No," he sighed. "I didn't know if I should. I thought that perhaps – perhaps if I'm killed in the fighting here, then it would be worse for him, to know that he'd lost me twice. That knowing I'd come back once, might make it harder to accept I'm not coming back the second time."

"I thought of that, too," murmured Finn, staring out at the plains. "I wrote a letter for my wife, telling her about all of it. But I'm still not sure if it would be best for her to read the letter, or if I just ought to get rid of it now. I'd want her to know what happened to me, and what I thought, but I – I still don't know."

_Good questions_, I thought. _Good questions for which I fear there are no good answers_.

"It will break their hearts to lose you, no matter what," I said at last. "But perhaps it is better if they know all there is to know. That instead of forever wondering what your last days were like, they know the story of those days, from you. Perhaps there would be comfort for them in knowing that you came back from death to speak with your father one last time, Buslai, or in knowing, Finn, that you came back to see your home once more."

"Well," Buslai said ruefully, "I've not told my da' a thing about it, so I'll just have to hope I'm not killed until I can tell him."

"My Lord," Captain Cirion called out, in his grim, matter-of-fact tones. "They are up to something out there. Do you see them? Along the trenches."

Again I turned to scowl into the haze.

"I see them."

At four positions along the arc of trenches, each of the four a location where the trench had been set afire, their marching companies cut a swathe across the plain. In their midst I could make out huge wains, hauled by dark shapes that I supposed must be more of their monstrous _mûmakil_, for I knew of no other creature vast enough to pull unaided a wain of that size.

By a segment of burning trench, that I judged must be carved straight across the City Road, the wains had already pulled up beside the line of fires. The antlike figures of the Enemy's troops swarmed over the wains, but instead of unloading the contents as I had expected, they began to set up some type of structure upon each, built of the materials that each huge cart had carried.

Svip and Holgar returned to the wall, Holgar and a guard whose aid he had enlisted carrying a brass-bound chest. I managed a perfunctory smile for Svip as the chest was shoved against the parapet, to the right of my position, and he hopped up upon it. But my attention was riveted on the fire-torn field, where the structures on the wains were resolving themselves into enormous catapults.

"Catapults?" Svip asked. "Can their shots reach us from there?"

"We will find out," I said. "One thing I do know, is that our shots cannot reach them."

"Can catapults be any use to them?" wondered young Holgar, from the other side of Svip's improvised firing-platform. "They cannot break through our wall – can they? They might as well try to tear down the mountain itself."

His words were a truism that all of us of Gondor had heard since childhood, and had always believed. The black stone of the outmost wall was unconquerable by steel or fire, unbreakable except by some convulsion that would rend the very earth on which it stood.

_But_, I thought, _that convulsion may be now upon us_.

Captain Cirion said flatly, "They do not seek to break through our walls, but to send their missiles over them."

"Send another messenger to the fire-fighting crews," I ordered. "Warn them to stand ready."

"Aye," the Captain grunted, in a tone that questioned whether standing ready would aid us.

"My Lord?"

I turned to see one of the City Guard; the same Man, I thought, who had helped Holgar carry the chest. Behind him, near the stairwell, stood a delegation from my household.

At their vanguard was Sigyn, the upstairs maid transformed into a shield maiden with a shortsword at her belt and a bow and quiver slung over her shoulder. One pace behind, stood her young cousins, my esquire Balamir and his sister Bettris, similarly armed. All three wore expressions of nervousness crossed with defiance, the look of children who expect a reprimand but are fully determined to have their own way regardless.

"My Lord," the guardsman said, "a barrel delivered from your townhouse is now in the guardhouse below. Your servants have requested leave to speak with you."

"I will speak with them, of course," I said, loudly enough for the three children to hear me and, I hoped, take courage from my tone.

The guard bowed and stepped aside. Balamir, Sigyn and Bettris exchanged a glance, then Balamir stepped forward. It was fitting, of course, that he should take the lead in addressing me, both as the one male in their party and in his role as my esquire. But the look on the boy's face left me in no doubt that he wished his elder cousin could do the talking for all of them. From Sigyn's wary expression as she watched young Balamir, she wished that she were doing the talking, as well.

"My Lord," Balamir said, bowing, "we have brought the barrel of River water as you ordered. If it pleases you, My Lord: my cousin, my sister and I ask permission to join the fire-fighting crews on the First Level. Master Gavrilo has directed that the people of your household join the crew on the Fifth Level, if need arises. But we would be where we may be of use the sooner. If there should be fires in the First Level, give us leave that we may be here to help, My Lord. We would not be waiting atop the hill while the City below us is burning."

The boy fell silent, looking abashed at having brought his speech to so spirited a conclusion. I approved of the speech myself, but there were other points to consider.

"Have you Master Gavrilo's permission to make this request of me?" I inquired.

"We have, My Lord," said my esquire, producing a crisply folded sheet of paper from the pouch at his belt. As he handed the note to me I recognised the paper and the tall, angular lines of the seneschal's handwriting in the words "_To the Lord Boromir,_" though from Balamir's patent nervousness, I wondered if the lad might have forged his uncle's message.

Gavrilo's note was supportive as far as it went, but I imagined that the children would not find its contents entirely satisfactory. My seneschal wrote that Balamir, Sigyn and Bettris had his approval to ask me for whatever assignment among the fire-fighting crews I might think fitting. But he added, "_I trust Your Lordship to assign them a role suited to their youth and inexperience, that they may be no hindrance to the efforts of the City's defenders_."

I handed the message back to Balamir, and asked, "Did Master Gavrilo give you leave to take those weapons from the armoury, as well?"

Balamir seemed suddenly incapable of speech. He cast an imploring glance back at Sigyn, who stepped to his side. "We do not have Master Gavrilo's leave to take the weapons, My Lord," she said, keeping her voice respectful but looking as though she would like to give her cousin a swift box on the ears. "Dame Weltrude gave us her permission to take them."

"I see," I said. And I wondered how in blazes I would best answer their request.

The most sensible course was probably just to send them home, with orders to return the weapons to my armoury and to make themselves useful to Gavrilo and Weltrude, rather than running about trying to play warriors. I did not want to weaken Gavrilo's authority by giving tacit approval to his wife's decision to let the children take the weapons with them – nor did I have any wish to find myself in the midst of a conjugal dispute between Gavrilo and his worthy spouse.

Yet their request not to be left waiting in the upper levels while there was work to be done to save the City, was a plea with which I could sympathise all too well. I'd had more than enough of watching helplessly while our country was dragged ever nearer to the abyss. I was loath to condemn others to watch and wait, when there was useful work to which they might put their hands.

"Very well," I said. "Report to Master Rađobard – he is commanding the fire-fighters on this level, is he not?" I turned to ask of Captain Cirion.

"He is, My Lord. They are headquartered at the Merchant Adventurers' Guildhall."

"Report to Master Rađobard at the Merchant Adventurers' Hall, and inform him of my request that he find service for you among his fire-fighters. Yet mark me in this, the three of you: you are not to put your lives at un-necessary risk, nor are you to place other defenders in jeopardy by compelling them to rescue you. Your duty is to serve our City, but still more, your duty is to survive. If the White City's children do not survive this siege, than all else for which we fight will count as nothing."

As the three bowed their heads to me, I went on. "Balamir, you have turned thirteen now, have you not? I count on you to keep the women safe from harm. Sigyn, I know that I can trust you to hold your cousins back from peril. Bettris, I charge you with preventing these two from trying any heroics. Is that understood? Young though you be, you are children of Gondor. I do not expect any of you to fail in your duties."

"Yes, My Lord," the three of them answered, Balamir and Bettris in whispers and Sigyn with all the pride and strength of a true daughter of Minas Tirith.

"Then get you to Master Rađobard post-haste. The crews will have work aplenty, soon enough."

"I thank you, My Lord," said Sigyn, pausing a moment longer as her young cousins hastened for the stairs. When Sigyn turned and strode after them, I caught an amused grin from Captain Cirion. He jerked his thumb toward Holgar Son of Armod, who stood frozen at his embrasure, staring after the departing Sigyn as though Elbereth Gilthoniel had descended to Middle Earth before his awe-stricken eyes. It took Holgar several moments to notice that all of his fellow Rangers were grinning at him.

"Gentlemen," I said, turning once more to face the Fields of Pelennor, "pray don't forget that some of us ought to be watching the enemy."

The enemy's troops had not been wasting their time. Already two catapults at least seemed constructed in full, with several more of them nearing completion.

With gall in my heart, I watched, fighting to think of some action we could take, even as their catapults were set to launch their assault.

Was it worthwhile setting Men to constructing massive catapults of our own, in the hope that we could craft them large enough to reach the enemy's line and stay their work against us?

But we had not the craftsmen to spare for the task, nor the lumber for such constructions unless we sacrificed whole houses to create them – nor the time to make the efforts worth our bothering, for in the time it took for us to build even one untested catapult, the vast engines of our foe would have set loose a tide of destruction that no catapult of ours could halt.

_Face it, Boromir_, the bitter words whispered through my mind, _there is nothing that you can do._

And then, at least, one stage in our waiting was ended. With yells from countless throats, with creaking of rope and winch borne across the distance to reach us upon the wall, they loosed the first of their missiles against the Shining City.

Yells of "Incoming!" sounded along the wall. Men ducked to the cover of the parapet, as like black hail their shot tore through the smoke-thick air.

There was little need for those on the wall to duck. One missile did fall short, smashing on the exterior of the wall. For an instant we saw it blossom into flame against the parapet, ere the sparks rained to earth before the Great Gate.

But their shots were aimed beyond we who stood upon the wall. The black missiles soared over our heads, to thud down at last in the First Circle behind us. With the shattering, the whoosh of flame, and the stinging reek that I recalled too well from Cair Andros and the Causeway Forts, they toppled down upon street and house and warehouse, flames springing up behind us to mirror the burning trench beyond our wall.

Trumpets called the alarm, sounding from a score of locations throughout the First Circle of the City. Here and there we could see from our post as the fire-fighters' carts, loaded with water barrels and buckets, tore through street and alleyway to reach some building that had flamed to light.

We had been ready, I told myself; as ready as we could have been. Yet if the bombardment continued at this rate, fire would spread through the First Level swifter than we had power to arrest it.

Perched beside me on his firing-platform, Svip alternated between leaping up to stare through the embrasure, and crouching, looking back into the City, hissing in a gasp through his teeth each time fire sprang from the darkened streets. He was muttering something almost under his breath that I could not understand; words in his own tongue, I guessed, but whether they might be curses or prayers, I did not know.

I turned to him to attempt some words of calm and comfort, when of a sudden he leapt to his feet again, staring fixedly into the streets directly north of the Gate. Even as I began, "Svip, what is it," the water creature cried, "The horses! Can you hear them? They're afraid. The building they're in is burning. Get them out!"

In the next instant another trumpet sounded, near at hand, and sparks of flame broke through the dimness from the Brewers' Guildhouse, where the horses of Dol Amroth were stabled.

"Every other Man!" I shouted. "To the Guildhouse of the Brewers! Get the horses to safety – directly under the outer wall may be the safest place for them. Then remain below to assist the fire-fighters as needed. Above all else, we must keep clear the road to the Second Gate. Go!"

"Should I go and see if I can help?" Svip asked me worriedly, as young Holgar and Buslai, of the Men nearest us, ran for the stairs with the others.

"No, Svip. I want you to stay here."

I thought to keep Svip safe the longer by keeping him there at my side. But keeping him by me would not protect him from the horror of the next assault that was to come.

The neighing of horses called through the streets as the Dol Amroth steeds were led free from their erstwhile stable. Suddenly a terrified whinny cut the air, and below us by the Gate one horse reared as some small, roundish missile landed nearly under the animal's hooves.

This shot did not break into flame as the missiles before it had done. As I peered through the gloom, attempting to determine what manner of object the shot might be, several more like it fell to the street nearby. One explosive missile fell among them, but it found no fuel, flaring brightly for a moment before guttering out in the cobbled street.

Men sprang to calm the rearing horse, while others ran to investigate the small, round shot. Each Man who drew nigh the mysterious missiles froze in his tracks. One uttered an incoherent cry, another burst into a string of curses that seemed as though it would have no end. I thought I heard other cries break forth along the First Level's streets, rage and grief sounding clearly in the voices even when I could not decipher their words.

"What is it?" I yelled down to the Men near the Gate.

One of them seemed to shake himself loose from a waking nightmare, and walked nearer to the wall. He called up to me, grief trembling in his tones, "They are heads, My Lord. The heads of our Men, belike those fallen at Osgiliath and the Causeway and the Pelennor." His voice broke on a sob, then he spat on the cobbles and shouted, "The bastards taunt us by defiling our dead, My Lord! We cannot let one of them leave our plains alive!"

"We will not," I shouted back, nearly sobbing myself in fury. "We will spare none of them!" It was a pointless vow, I knew full well; an oath of vengeance squealed out by a rabbit already crushed in the jaws of a wolf. But shouting defiance seemed the only alternative to sinking under the horror.

Svip seized hold of my hand, hanging on with a grip that I distantly noticed was tight enough to hurt. At my other side, Captain Cirion stood whispering profanities as though they were a prayer.

I rubbed sweat from my face, feeling dizzy and telling myself that I just needed a drink of River water. As more of the heads flew past us to land on the cobbles below, I heard myself say in a tear-roughened voice, "Captain. We must not let them remain untended. Our people's hope stands on shaky enough foundations; it may not survive with the heads of our slain strewn in every street and alleyway."

"Aye, My Lord," Cirion muttered hoarsely.

"Pick out such Men as you believe can best withstand the task, and set them to collecting up the heads. Relay my order to the commanders along each stretch of wall, that they must do the same. Have the heads brought to the guardhouses; we will tend them later with the honour due to them, if we survive long enough to do them that courtesy."

"Aye, My Lord."

I suddenly thought again of the children of my household, and cursed myself for permitting them to remain on the First Level. I would have given much to shield them from such a sight as this, though the Valar knew that they would see worse, and suffer worse, as well, if the day went ill for us – as would we all.

At least I could hope that Pippin would not see this, that he was on one of the upper levels now with my father, and that he would never see the heads of slaughtered Men rain upon the streets of Minas Tirith.

Svip let go of my hand and retreated to his firing-platform chest, where he sat huddled against the parapet. I crossed back to the parapet myself, and stared into the murk.

The dark masses of our enemy waited yet, just outside our range. Beyond their trenches of fire, lurked rank upon rank of their antlike hordes, and the monstrous forms of their accursed _mûmakil_. Interspersed amid the swarming figures, the great catapults fired on without respite. And as each catapult fired, the distant creak and thud of its mechanism was swallowed in the cackling cheers of the carrion creatures who worked it.

If sheer vicious anger were enough, I could have slain every Orc and Southron and _mûmak_ that now defiled our fields.

_We must use that anger_, I thought, _if we hope to live and call our enemy to account_.

"Men on the wall!" I shouted. "Let not the horror of their contrivances succeed in turning our eyes from the ranks of our foe. They think to blind us with our grief, and advance upon us while we are weeping too sore to see them. Give them not that satisfaction! Watch them; watch them as though you were so many birds of prey. And when they step within our range, then take your revenge for our comrades whom they have profaned!"

A few bitter cheers answered my harangue, and I counted that at least good enough for now. I uncorked my canteen and took a swig that drained it to its dregs. I stared at my hands for a moment as I refastened the canteen to my belt, flexing my fingers to test that they still had feeling in them.

I did not feel yet, I thought, the symptoms that had marked the last time I stayed too long away from the River. I yet had feeling in all of my limbs, and I felt no hint of the deathly chill that before had taken hold in my bones.

I felt weary and a trifle sore, as though from the last vestiges of a night of too great excess. But that, it seemed, was the extent of my indisposition.

I smiled grimly, forming a silent prayer to all the gods that my health should last at least until I had torn the lives from a good few hundreds of our foes.

And if I expected the gods to heed that prayer, I told myself, I had bloody well better refill my canteen while I had the chance.

"Svip," I said to my friend who still sat huddled against the parapet. "I'm going down to the guardhouse to get some more water."

He roused himself from his seeming stupor, and jumped to his feet with apparently all of his old eagerness. "I'm going with you," he said.

"No, Svip," I told him quietly. "You don't have to."

"No," he insisted. "I'm going to."

I studied him for a moment. His eyes gleamed brightly and his mouth had a fierce set to it that told me he approved of my doctrine of revenge.

"All right," I said. "Let us go, then."

We made our way down the stairs paralleling the wall, then doubled back to the guardhouse in the Gate's south tower. There I paused just inside the doorway, looking at Svip, who hung back at the threshold.

"Svip," I tried again, "you can go back to the wall if you want; it's all right …"

He shook his head fiercely and stepped inside.

My barrel with the stamp of the Orc's Head Inn stood off to one side, beneath the window that opens onto the Court of the Gate. But I did not go to it at once. On the room's one table stood open a chest like the one we had borrowed for Svip's firing platform. The armaments and supplies that would normally have filled that chest were stacked against the wall, and into the chest two of Cirion's Rangers were unloading the contents of a bag that rested upon the table.

They worked as carefully as they could, one Man removing each head from the bag and handing it to his comrade, who placed it inside the chest. I heard a hissing gasp from Svip, but I did not take my gaze from the Rangers' grim task.

Suddenly and absurdly I found myself wishing for honest daylight, as though the touch of sunlight upon this scene would render it any less hideous.

_Sunlight or torchlight_, I told myself, _it would be the same_.

Several of the heads were crushed or hewn to be barely recognisable as having borne the faces of Men. But others still had features that could be told. Faces forever twisted in anguish sat above necks that seemed less cut than cruelly ripped. There was little blood left upon them, save for caked and blackened chunks which clung still to their wounds.

The image sprang to my mind of the journey that must have brought the heads here. I saw them jolting over our burned and ravaged fields, heaped high upon each other in the enemy's wains.

One other token of mockery our foe had sent to us with the heads of our slain. Upon each, even those so mangled that they bore no remnant of a face, was burnt the black brand of the Lidless Eye.

Again my thoughts screamed for vengeance. And into them leapt a thought that I did not expect.

_Frodo_, my mind pleaded, _Frodo, please succeed! Make it through to the Mountain of Fire; cast Sauron's Ring in deep. Let him feel all the pain that he has sent to us._

I wished that I could see the Dark Lord's face, as his Ring melted in Orodruin's flames. I wished that I could hear his screams.

"What's that on their foreheads?" Svip whispered. "On all of them. What is it?"

"The Eye of the Enemy," I said flatly. "He does not wish us to forget that he is watching us."

"I know this one, My Lord," one of the Rangers said suddenly in a strange, distant voice. "Sergeant Minardil. He was stationed on the Rammas."

I crossed to the two Men and placed my hand on the shoulder of he who had spoken. The second Ranger looked in concern at his comrade, who stared down at the bruised and battered face of Sergeant Minardil. Then, with a quiet sigh, the first Man handed over the head to be placed with the rest of them.

"Do not labour at this too long," I said. "I will send others from the wall to relieve you."

"Thank you, sir," said the second Ranger, in a voice barely over a whisper. His comrade nodded.

"We can bring back the chest I've been using to stand on," Svip said earnestly. "I don't need it, I can use something else. If it's needed here …"

The second Ranger spoke again, sounding ever closer to tears, "There's another here yet that we can move on to, if we fill this one …"

"Here's the last from this sack," put in the other Man, gingerly removing one last mangled head from the bag. This last head was placed with the others, and the two Rangers closed the chest as gently as they could. Both Men sighed then, as though closing the heads away from sight had lifted the pall of horror. But none of us needed reminding that they were still with us, and that all around us were more, waiting to join them.

Trying to sound matter-of-fact, the second Ranger said, "We'll go and get another batch, My Lord. And then – if there are others who can relieve us …"

"There will be," I promised.

The Rangers departed on their dismal errand.

"Do you want some River water, Svip?" I asked, crossing to the barrel.

He nodded and made haste to follow me. "I'll take a little of it to wash in," he said, still speaking in hushed tones as if to avoid disturbing the heads of the slain. "If it's all right."

I worked as swiftly and as quietly as I could manage, ever feeling under brooding observation from the chest and its contents. I unsealed the lid of the barrel and used my canteen as a dipper to pour water out into Svip's cupped hands. While he splashed the water over his face, I filled the canteen and drank most of it in one go. Once more I dunked the canteen and poured some water over my neckerchief, then I topped up the canteen one last time, as though the few extra drops would make the difference between survival and failure.

As I corked the canteen and tied the neckerchief, I wondered again if I were deluding myself with the belief that these rituals were aiding me.

_If I am_, I thought, _it does not matter_. _Better to have something upon which you believe you can rely, than to have no hope at all_.

Hurriedly we betook ourselves from the silent guardhouse and back up to the wall. I relayed to Cirion the order to find Men to replace his two Rangers, an order he received with a sceptical grimace, as though inquiring whether I believed that any Man could perform such a task as theirs without sorrow.

"It will be easy for none, I know that," I said heavily, barely able to restrain a shudder as I thought of the scene below. "But none should have to bear it for too long, or we will do the Dark Lord's work and steal our Men's courage from them."

The morning crept onward. The bombardment of fiery missiles continued unchecked. Still the trumpets called our fire-fighters to battle, and ever and anon we caught glimpses of their labours throughout the smoke-dark streets.

But there was one comfort to be seized, if one wished to call it that. As the day dragged on, the barrage of heads slowed and came finally almost to a halt.

I told myself, _At least that is something. The enemy has not yet gained an inexhaustible supply. There are not so many of our slain that they can keep up their salvoes of heads through all the day_.

I thought darkly of the supply that they would have if they breached our wall, then I exiled the thought. Once more I repeated in my mind as though the words were some magic spell, _Minas Tirith will not fall_.

I began to wish that I'd assigned myself to the fire-fighting effort, rather than condemning myself to cool my heels upon the wall. The fire-fighters at least could take action, could _do_ something other than stand and watch the enemy. And for much of that morning, the enemy did not provide anything terribly interesting to watch.

They continued to dig and fire their ring of trenches – trenches that I started to suspect were primarily intended as light sources for the catapult operators, for there were Men among them, no better able to see in the Dark Lord's murk than we were. They continued to fire upon us, explosive missiles for the most part, with one of their victims' heads every now and again. And at a slower pace than during their first wave of construction, they continued to set up new catapults. That, to my eyes at least, was all.

Peevishly I wondered which weapon they deemed would be more effective against us, the despair engendered by the bombardment of severed heads, or the boredom that they now let loose upon us.

But the time was to come soon enough, when I wished for a return of that boredom.

Another weapon our foe held in his arsenal, and as the morning staggered toward a shadowy noon, he sent that weapon forth.

I was not sure that they were there, at first. Hints of sound that could perhaps be imagination hovered at the first far above us, half out of hearing. There came whispers of voices from fevered nightmare, half-seen glimpses of darker shadows that wheeled through the inky sky overhead. Along the wall I saw Man after Man glance upward nervously, frown and inquire whether his neighbour had heard or seen anything, start to fidget with his weapons or rub suddenly sweating palms upon his clothes.

Svip was sitting on his firing platform again. I turned from watching these nervous reactions spread among the Men, to see Svip huddled in on himself, knees drawn to his chest and arms clasped tightly about them, staring with enormous eyes up to the looming sky.

"Svip," I whispered. "What is it, can you hear something?"

"Yes," he whispered back. "It's them. They've come, they're up there."

Slowly they drew closer, or at least they allowed their voices to sound more clearly upon our ears and minds. The moment came when one could doubt their presence no longer. They were up there, indeed, circling the City, screaming their cries of malice and horror. Up there, but out of bowshot and out of our sight, that the fear of them might spread through our ranks the faster than if we faced a visible foe.

Ever they circled above us, as vultures looking to gorge upon our flesh. And as before, at Osgiliath and at the Causeway Forts, I saw the terror of them grow upon our Men, until it became near the only thing that they could hear or think or feel.

I gripped Svip's shoulder, smiling encouragement at him as he dragged his gaze down from the sky and blinked at me.

"Stay close by me, Svip," I said.

Eyes still wide in fear, he nodded and slipped from the chest, padding silently beside me as I set out along the wall.

As before, even as the fear seized hold of everyone around me, I could feel no trace of it. I felt only anger, furious outrage that the Dark Lord's household cavalry could strike such a crippling blow against us without riding into combat, without ever risking injury or defeat to themselves.

They were brave Men there along our wall, every one of them tested in combat and accustomed to peril and death. They stood, struggling to give battle to their fear. Some gazed at the sky, as silent tears coursed down their ashen cheeks. Others stared instead at the battlement, shaking their heads or muttering to themselves as they fought to block the voices from their minds.

Desperation trembled and grew among us, as warriors of Gondor wept and prayed aloud for strength to put the fear aside.

Svip and I walked as far as the third tower to the south of the Great Gate, then turned and retraced our steps to make the same journey to the north. I did not think I could risk going any farther from my post, and perhaps even that was too far. Nor could I assure myself without doubt that my rounds of the wall were accomplishing any good.

I stopped to speak with each Man we met along the wall, all the words that I could conjure of comfort and courage. I clasped their hands or their shoulders, joked of the Nazgûl's impotence in only screaming from the shadows but never meeting us in fight, spoke of whatever I could think in the effort to turn their minds from the fear.

I was rewarded by trembling smiles, shaky-voiced answering jokes, looks of anger and shame from veterans who counted it a wound to their honour that their Captain had seen their fear.

I told myself that my presence was doing _something_. But I was not, I thought, so great a talisman of hope that when I walked on, the memory of my visit would yet hold the terror at bay.

_Father should make me Court Jester_, I thought sourly, _it appears to be all that I am good for, at this moment_. It was too bad, I told myself, that we had not the time for me to send to the Steward's Library for a manual of jokes that I might teach myself. I had never seen one there, but doubtless there was one. No doubt Faramir could tell me precisely which shelf it sat upon – it and every other book in the place.

_Faramir_, I thought, _I wish you were awake, and here with me_.

Faramir would know what to do, to armour our people's hearts against their fear.

As we once more reached our post, on the battlement atop the Gate, a band of our warriors strode out from Tanners' Lane into the Court of the Gate. I thought certain that I recognised the two Men in their vanguard, though I was surprised to see them appear from out of the fire-threatened alleyways of the First Circle. Then one of the two stepped forward and raised his voice in greeting, and there was no longer any question of whom they might be.

"Hail, keepers of the Gate!" called the Lord Steward Denethor of Gondor. "We request permission to walk upon the wall."

"Permission freely granted, My Lord," I called back, and my father, Húrin of the Keys, and their attendants crossed the plaza toward the stairs.

As they climbed and drew nigh to us, I saw that they had done more than merely pass near the fires in the City. All of them, from my father to the last of the guards, had acquired a dusting of soot that clung to clothing and armour, faces and hair. A few of the guards, I noticed, were passing a grimy cloth between them as they climbed the stairs, taking turns in the attempt to wipe the soot from their faces. Some even showed marks of burns upon their clothes, and one guard appeared to have been burned or wounded, for a bandage improvised from some piece of brightly-coloured fabric was wrapped about his forearm.

My father and his entourage reached the battlement. I advanced to meet them, and could not hold myself from smiling at the sight they made.

The Lord Steward, the Keeper of the Keys, and Peregrin Took of the Shire looked as though they had held a wrestling match inside a fireplace, all three streaked and splattered with soot from their helmets to their boots. It was not too surprising a vision to see Pippin looking like some household sprite that dwelt up a chimney, but I thought that I would long treasure this image of the Lord my father, with black smudges on his face and flecks of ash caught in his beard. Not that the Lord Steward was made any the less his impressive and intimidating self, even looking as though he had tried his hand at chimney-sweeping.

"Sir," I said, bowing. As I straightened, I saw Pippin cast a worried little smile at Svip, who had scurried at my side to meet the Steward's party. Pippin then looked up questioningly at the Steward. My father noted it, too, for he turned and declared to his Men, "You may be at ease," then added to the Hobbit, "Master Peregrin, you have my leave to go and speak with the Lord Svip."

Svip remembered to look up to me for permission as well. "Go on," I granted, smiling as the two of them burst into hushed but animated discussion. They were still talking at a pace that would make any other creature's brain spin, as Svip led Pippin to take a seat on his firing-platform chest.

Briefly I reported to my father such developments as I had witnessed or in which I had played a role: the trench-ring and the assembly of their catapults, the enemy's vile use of the heads of our slain and our efforts to deal with the heads as befitted our fallen comrades, my sending a portion of my troops to join the fire-fighting effort, and now the accursed winged shadows and the effect they were having upon the morale of our defenders.

My father commented little, though his expression grew grim and dark at many points in my narrative. Several times, I noticed, his glance flickered upward, to the heavy sky where the Nazgûl circled us with their screams of evil and despair.

It shook me a little, though I knew that it should not, to see fear warring with the anger in my father's eyes as he looked skyward.

I told myself it was not the first time I had realised that my father could and did know fear. I had seen it far more often than I wished, since my return home. I was no longer a child, to believe that my great and glorious father could never be afraid. And the Lord Steward was yet a Man. When every other Man and every creature knew fear at the Nazgûl's wails, why did I expect that my father would be the exception?

My thoughts replied, _Every other Man except myself_.

That, I thought, was why it seemed so wrong to see my father's fear. It was hard to accept that my father feared the dark Riders, when I, myself, was yet unafraid.

I asked, to turn my thoughts and his from the shadows above, "How fares it with the fire-fighting in the City, My Lord?"

He sighed in impatience, his eyes and mouth narrowing. "It _did_ proceed well," he snapped, "until our foe sent forth his carrion-eaters to howl above us." This time the glance he cast toward the unseen Riders was one of pure irritation and resentment. "The fire crews had made good strides in holding the fires' spread to a minimum, until the wraiths arrived. Now we may be fortunate if we succeed in saving one-quarter of the First Circle. Fire-fighters are easily outpaced when a wail overhead can strike them into immobility."

"You should not blame them for their fear, My Lord –" I began.

"I do not blame them," my father interrupted, with an aching weariness that again took me by surprise. He went on, taking off his helmet for a moment to wipe sweat from his brow, "We joined in the fight for a time, to prove by example that the fires could still be combated even with the Nine screeching through the skies. The crews with whom we worked, rallied well." His voice grew darker as he said, "But our strength to rally will fail before ever the foe runs out of fire or screeches of doom."

"We will fight on, sir," I insisted – perhaps more out of habit and stubbornness, than of belief.

"Aye, we will fight – if they see fit to give us more tangible opponents than our own despair."

I did not know what to say to that. Fortunately, my father spared me from having to think of something.

"We should be moving on," he said, donning his helmet once more. "I will visit your post again later, Boromir."

He gripped my shoulder, and I reached up to close my hand over his. "Till then, My Lord."

The Steward called out in command, summoning his Men to attend upon him. As the entourage assembled, Pippin reluctantly dragged himself from the shelter of the parapet, where he had sat huddled in whispered conversation with Svip. I saw both of them glance unhappily at the sky, then they shook hands before Pippin jumped down from the chest.

The Hobbit did not go at once to my father's side, but hastened first to me. He held out his hand to me, studying me with solemn gaze. I crouched down and for a moment we clasped hands, then, without a word, Pippin turned and crossed to take his place by my father.

I walked to Svip, and we watched the Steward's party set forth northward along the wall.

A few minutes later, I wondered if my father's departure had been occasioned by one of his premonitions.

Down the Citadel Road, from the direction of the Second Gate, came another company, that I recognised even in the distance and the smoky murk.

At their fore I saw Mithrandir in his gleaming white robe. I saw also the strange effect that I had witnessed before at the Causeway Forts: the impression that the Wizard somehow gave off his own light.

By Mithrandir's side, strode a Man whom I had little doubt was my uncle Imrahil. He and the Men who followed wore the gleaming scale mail and the blue surcoats blazoned with the ship and the swan, that declared them Knights of Dol Amroth.

As they approached, and my uncle called out his request to walk upon the wall, I thought that I sensed some subtle difference of emotion come over the Men about me. I thought that the defenders' stances relaxed slightly, that they looked less frequently to the sky, that their voices sounded louder and more freely, suffering less from the fearful constraints of the unseen Riders' presence.

_Bloody hell_, I reflected. _If Mithrandir spoke true of his power to turn aside our Men's fear, it will irritate my father no end_.

Perhaps it did not have to be mentioned to the Lord my father. I thought,_ What he does not know, cannot annoy him_.

If the Steward would not have appreciated the seeming calm which spread upon our Men at Mithrandir's arrival, he would, at least, have approved of one comment that greeted their party's approach. From his post at the parapet, I heard one of the Rangers remark, "That's splendid. That is all we need, to have the Messenger of Doom pay us a visit."

"What are you worried about?" his comrade at the next embrasure snorted. "We are doomed already. We cannot get any more doomed."

As my father had done, Imrahil ordered his Men at ease when they reached our post upon the Gate. Mithrandir bowed to me, then said, "Hail, Master Svip. What can you see from your perch there?"

Svip hopped up eagerly and began pointing out to the Wizard the various catapult stations of the enemy. My uncle smilingly watched Wizard and water creature for a moment, then he turned to me.

"You are cutting it close, Uncle," I told him. "A few minutes earlier and you'd have run smack into my father's party."

"Valar forfend," he said, with an exaggerated shudder. "I count on Lord Mithrandir's wizardly instincts to spare us from such a catastrophe."

I began, "Have you –"

I halted a moment, loathing to finish the question for fear of the answers I might receive. Then I spoke again. "Have you seen Faramir this morning?"

Imrahil nodded. "We have," he answered. "Two hours ago, by now." The Prince gave a quiet sigh. "I wish that I had something more to tell you. His state seems little changed. He was unconscious still, when we visited him. And the Healers say that he has shown no sign of waking."

"Does he – does he yet speak in his sleep?"

"Yes." Imrahil's sudden frown told that he knew as well as I, what fate was foretold when the Black Sleep's victims ceased to speak. "I could not understand everything that he said. I know that he called for you, and for your father. He may, I think, have spoken also of his meeting with the Hobbits in Ithilien. And I believe we heard him speak of the dream that you and he received, that sent you seeking for Imladris. That, at least, was Mithrandir's interpretation of his words, and I believe he was probably right."

"Thank you," I sighed, wondering how long we had left before Faramir fell into silence.

"Boromir?"

The voice that called out was that of Svip, standing at the parapet with Mithrandir. My uncle and I turned and walked to them.

"I think the enemy's shots are getting slower," Svip said. "There's not as many of them as there were, and it's taking longer for each catapult to reload and fire again. Do you think so?"

We watched, frowning into the dusk. I saw the catapult just to the north of our position fire shortly after Svip had spoken. But it was then nearly five minutes, I judged, before that catapult fired again. Only three others that I could see fired in that time.

"Are they running out of shot?" Svip wondered.

Prince Imrahil observed, "Even Orcs should have the foresight to bring shot enough, that they would not run out in less than a day of siege. Though perhaps they have supplies yet to catch up with the vanguard, in their baggage trains."

The Wizard spoke quietly, "It may be no scarcity of missiles that ails them. The cries of the Riders above sound as clearly beyond the White City's walls, as they do within. Their armour, as well as ours, can be pierced by the voice of fear."

Imrahil and Svip both involuntarily glanced at the sky. I scowled, then I said, before I could talk myself out of asking, "Lord Mithrandir. I would ask a question of you, if I may."

He turned his gaze upon me, one eyebrow quirking upward in surprise. "I cannot promise that I hold the answer, Lord Boromir. But ask freely; I will answer if I can."

My uncle must have read in my face that I would prefer no audience for my question. He bowed to Svip and said, "My Lord Svip, many knights of my household have requested the honour of meeting you. I would introduce you to them, if you have the time to spare."

Svip looked to me, and I contrived a smile and a nod.

"What's a knight?" Svip asked, as he jumped down from the chest. My uncle was commencing a précis of the ranks of Dol Amroth's forces when they passed out of my hearing.

A smile softened the shadows on Mithrandir's face as he gazed after Svip and the Prince. "You had a question, My Lord?" he prompted then, while both of us watched my uncle's Swan Knights take turns bowing and shaking hands with Svip.

"Do you fear the Black Riders?" I asked him.

The Wizard fixed his eyes upon me again, and at first he did not reply. "Not as most others fear them," he answered at last. "I know well to dread the power their voices wield against the peoples of Middle Earth."

A twisting wail sounded from the shadows above, as though the Dark Lord's Riders knew they were the topic of our discussion. I glanced upward in dislike.

"I do not fear them," I said. "And I don't understand why."

Both of the Wizard's eyebrows climbed into the shadow of his hat. "You have feared them in the past?"

"Yes. Last summer at Osgiliath Bridge, and again with the Fellowship, on the River above Sarn Gebir. But not since."

I thought I saw a glimmer of amusement in Mithrandir's eyes, though it seemed that I could read sympathy there as well. In the tones of a patient schoolmaster whose student cannot see the most evident of answers, he asked, "Has anything of importance happened to you between the time when you feared them, and when you did not?"

Obvious though it was, it took me another moment to realise it. When I did, I wished heartily that I had not asked.

"Aye," I admitted grimly. "I died."

Another mocking cry sounded above us. I wished that we had Legolas here with us, to shoot the bastards out of the sky as he had done at Sarn Gebir.

"What does it mean, then?" I demanded of the Wizard, thinking that this answer was likely as painfully clear as the last one. "Does dying and coming back mean the promise of death in their cries holds no further terror for me? Death would take just as much from me now as it did the first time. Why, then, should I not fear their screams that promise it to us?"

"Do you wish to fear them, Lord Boromir?" Mithrandir inquired, in his tone of quiet amusement that invariably made my father want to strangle him, and had very nearly the same effect on me.

Before I could reply, he said, "The theory you state may have truth in it. It may be that some portion of your mind recalls the experience of your death, even if it seems that no memory of it remains with you. And that recalling it, though without your active recollection, your mind knows that there is no cause to fear.

"But," he went on, "I believe there is something else. You have died and returned – as have the Nine Riders. Perhaps, in some way, that has made you kin unto them. I mean no slur against you, My Lord," the Wizard added swiftly, holding up his hand against the anger that automatically appeared on my face. "I do not say that you are like to them. But the very fact of your death has taken you a few steps into their world. Sharing that world, even if only its edges, has left you without fear of it. And it has left you to wrestle with your guilt, when you see your people afraid and can neither give them your lack of fear, nor share their fear with them."

I frowned, trying to determine if I understood what he had just said. I supposed it did make some kind of sense, when I thought that I had found my way through the maze of his words.

A howl from the Riders of the Enemy tore the sky once more. Mithrandir smiled again in what seemed to be genuine amusement, as he gazed upward at the dark.

"I said that you share the edges of their world," he mused. "Perhaps I should rather have said that they share the edges of yours. It would surprise me not at all if the Nine Riders envy you, Lord Boromir. You have returned to life in truth. They have returned to only such shadows of life as their Dark Lord doles out to them."

I could not restrain a grudging smile at the notion that the wraith lords would envy me – or, indeed, that my existence might impinge upon their thoughts at all. I wondered how they might express their envy. The image leapt to my mind of the Black Riders at their local tavern down the road from Barad-dûr, challenging each other at darts and using a portrait of me as their dartboard.

_Boromir, my friend_, I advised myself, _you have lost what little was left of your mind. If that is what talking with Wizards does to you, your father is right to recommend avoiding it. _

I snorted, "They may satisfy their resentment against me whenever they wish, if they see fit to face me in combat rather than flying about screaming from the shadows."

Mithrandir sighed and shook his head, his smile taking on a tinge of melancholy. "I doubt that fighting you is among their plans. They know they can inflict more pain upon you by hurting the people that you love."

"What is the good of it, Mithrandir?" I demanded suddenly, exasperation and anger surging through me in reply to his words. "Is there any use for my lack of fear, and yours? How can it aid our cause that you and I are unafraid, when our people are crushed beneath their fear? You, at least, seem able to ease the fear of those around you. I can do nothing at all!"

"You are selling yourself short, Son of Denethor," the Wizard said. "As I believe you so often do. Do not underestimate yourself. Do not underestimate the power you have to do good in this Middle Earth."

I swallowed back a groan of despair, and turned to glare out at the enemy's trenches of fire. "I think Frodo would disagree with your estimate of my goodness."

Mithrandir said in a tone that surprised me in its gentleness, "I hope you will have the chance to ask him, and hear his own answer to that."

"Aye," I whispered. "So do I."

"One thing I have learned since first I saw these shores," the Wizard went on in his musing tones, "and that is how little occurs by coincidence alone. I do not believe chance brought any of our Company to Rivendell. It was not chance that chose any member of the Fellowship. Each one had – and I believe still has – his role to play. It was far more than chance that led you to your death and your return, and that leaves you now free to face the Nine without fear."

I sighed, "I hope you are right."

At the next turret along the wall, I saw Imrahil looking at us, as though questioning whether it was yet safe for them to return. Svip stood at his side, deep in conversation with one of Imrahil's Knights.

I nodded to my uncle. He turned and said something to Svip and the Knight, and the three of them commenced strolling back toward us.

"Well, Nephew," the Prince hailed me as they drew nigh, "I suppose it is time for us to leave you, and go on spreading cheer along the next stretch of wall." He grinned ruefully and added, "Heading in the opposite direction, I think, from that taken by the Lord your father."

"I think that would be best."

As Imrahil, Mithrandir and the Knights took their leave, it seemed to me almost as though the sky darkened further, clouds swallowing up one last ray of daylight. If that impression had made its way through to my mind, I thought, it was likely the faintest echo of the darkness that those around me must feel descending on them. The motionless air seemed to grow thicker and heavier yet, the reek of smoke clinging to our nostrils even as the cries of the Nazgûl hung upon the air.

For some moments the Men at the embrasures stood watching, as the party of the Prince and the Wizard moved off along the wall. Svip reached up and closed his hand around mine, saying nothing.

I heard sighs and a few whispers, but the first voice that carried clearly was that of our Ranger comrade Finn Son of Thorstein.

"I think it's time we showed one needn't be born on Dol Amroth's shores to face death with a light heart." He unslung from his back the small, red-painted lute that I remembered him playing on an evening that already seemed so long in the past, the first night we had spent in the refuge of Lilla Howe.

"My Lord," he went on, "permission to try a tune or two? I haven't had much chance to practice lately, but I reckon it can't sound any worse than them." He jerked his thumb, indicating the unseen Riders above.

I said emphatically, "Permission granted and gladly."

A distant, howling wail dragged Finn's gaze to the sky. He stood for a moment looking upward. Then he bit his lip and looked down once more, plucking a first few tuning notes from his lute strings.

I leaned against the parapet to listen as Finn began to play. In the corners of my vision, I saw others do the same.

Little by little, Svip's grip on my hand grew less tight. As Finn's first tune ended and another began, Svip let go of my hand and sat down cross-legged on the battlement, watching the Ranger with a fascinated gaze that reminded me of the way he had looked at me when first I opened my eyes from death and saw him.

A few of the pieces Finn played I didn't know, haunting, melancholy tunes that I thought were perhaps compositions of Finn's own. For the most part, he played the old tunes; tunes known, I had no doubt, to every Man among us.

They were songs that all of us had sung or heard, by campfire or barracks fireplace. He played songs of lovers sundered by fate and war, songs of soldiers dreaming of their homes, songs of the Men left alive to remember comrades slain.

As Finn was bringing one tune to its close, Svip asked quietly if he could try playing the lute. For a moment I thought again uneasily of the heaped chaos in Svip's house, and the utter lack of care with which he treated the items in his collection. But when Finn sat on the battlement by Svip's side and handed the lute to him, Svip held it cautiously, following Finn's instructions with as much respect and attention to detail as he had shown to all the ways and belongings of Men he had encountered on this journey.

Finn showed him where to place his hands and how to finger the strings, and to my wonder, Svip began to pick out the tune that Finn had just finished playing. He did not try the harmonies that Finn had played, but the melody sprang forth clearly from under Svip's fingers.

The Ranger cast a marvelling smile up at me. Then softly he took up the words of the song, as Svip played on.

_"The soldier's life won't suit me_

_Sweet music is my trade_

_I'd rather melt the hardest heart_

_Than pierce it with a blade._

_Let the time be short till I return_

_To the White City so high_

_And the loving girl who stole my heart_

_With these words as I passed by:_

_"Last night we spoke of love_

_Now we're forced to part_

_You leave to the sound of the marching drum_

_And the beat of a lover's heart."_

Svip handed the lute back to Finn at the verse's close, smiling shyly as the Men about him broke into exclamations of praise. Finn urged him to continue, but Svip shook his head. He sat back against the parapet beside me while Finn took up the lute once more.

The music lilted on. Sometimes the lute sounded alone. Sometimes Finn sang, his light voice piercing the sullen air as though a breath of breeze had arisen to cut through the smoke that surrounded us.

I wondered, as that afternoon passed, if I were deceiving myself in the thought that the Black Riders' cries were becoming fainter, and much farther between.

It would be foolish, I told myself, to believe that Finn's lute had got the wraiths on the run. Perhaps in fairy tales music had the power to hold Evil at bay, but not in our world. Yet still it seemed that the Riders drew back from us as the hours crept onward, until at last their screams remained only a troublous memory.

The memory was not all that troubled me. In the feeling almost of peace that settled over us as the cries of the Nazgûl faded, I asked myself what it was that would make the Riders fall back.

The strongest answer that came to me was that they were ordered into silence to give respite to the Dark Lord's own troops, that fear of the wraiths might not hinder their armies when they launched their next assault.

The last of the murky light dwindled into evening. Fires burned yet here and there in the First Circle. Any glance to the plain showed the dark mass of their forces waiting still, and the sinister glow of their trenches of fire. But the Ringwraiths were silent, the crackle of flames distant, the creaking and thuds of the enemy's catapults so rare as to all but have ceased entirely.

Finn's voice rang clearly amid the gloom.

"_Prepare, you sweet flowers_

_For winter advances_

_And drink well the sunlight_

_That touches your form._

_Take strength from the earth_

_And repay her with beauty._

_For the dark days are coming,_

_And they'll do you harm._

_"When the chill eastern winds_

_Replace summer breezes,_

_And the long summer days_

_Are remembered no more,_

_Then you know how it feels_

_When a woman's love changes_

_When at last she has told you_

_She loves you no more."_

"I could use a chill wind just now," murmured one of the Men at the parapet. "I wouldn't mind if it _did_ come from the east."

"My Lord," Captain Cirion called to me quietly, an amused note in his voice. "Come and have a look at this."

I turned from staring out on the Pelennor Fields, to see the Ranger Captain gazing grinningly down at some sight in the street below us. I crossed to his side, leaving Svip listening in rapt silence to Finn's song.

In the light of the torches along the wall, we could see one of the firefighters' wagons, drawn up before the house at the corner of Brewers' Street and the Citadel Road. No fires burned in this section of the City, that I could see, and this crew of firefighters' were taking advantage of the lull to listen to Finn's music.

I saw my young servants Balamir and Bettris sitting in the wagon, with others of their crew standing nearby. Among these, two lingered a little ways apart, standing close to each other and speaking with all the intensity of youth.

I had to grin as I watched Holgar Son of Armod reach out timidly and take the hand of Sigyn, my seneschal's daughter. The shield maiden gazed into the young Ranger's face, and she did not pull away her hand.

"Youth," Cirion snorted. "To be young enough that you can think of picking flowers as the ground crumbles beneath your feet."

"Do you grudge it them, Captain?" I asked him, smiling.

"No, My Lord. I wish that I could see some way to prevent the flowers from all being trampled."

Darkness closed on us in truth. Finn re-shouldered the lute and took his place at the parapet. In the quiet that followed, I am sure I was not alone in listening to hear if the Nazgûls' cries would sound forth again.

The screams did not come. The enemy's catapult barrage increased in pace, fiery missiles erupting with grim regularity in the streets and buildings behind us. But the bombardment of Gondorians' heads did not gain pace alongside the missiles of flame.

It seemed that at least our foe's supply of heads had run low. That, or they chose to lob our Men's heads at us only in what passed for daylight, that we might more fully suffer the pain of seeing them.

There was yet no wind to pierce the air's leaden stillness. But the fires spread swiftly now through the First Circle, even without the aid of any wind.

The time would come, I thought, when we could spare no more Men from the wall – and when however many we threw into the firefighting, it would not be enough to stop the spread of the blaze.

Yet for now, there was little enough that the Men on the wall could do of any use. And we could at least keep clear of flames the road to the Second Gate, that the defenders of the First Circle would have an avenue of retreat left to us, if at the last we came to require it.

I ordered every other Man, from the fifth tower north of the Gate to the fifth tower south of it, to report to the firefighting companies. This time Finn Son of Thorstein was among those who left the wall. Before setting out, he unslung his red lute from his back once more and asked Svip to look after it for him until he got back.

Regretfully I realised that I had now all but defeated my purpose in requesting Cirion's company be stationed at the Gate, since I had sent to the firefighting details every one of Svip's oldest friends among us save for Cirion and myself. As I looked at Svip standing with his elbows on an embrasure and his chin propped in his hands, with Finn's lute resting against the wall beside him, I wished yet again for some way to turn aside the fate that was drawing in.

I wished for some way that I could rescue Svip from this darkness. I wished that I could rescue Pippin, and Faramir, and our father. And all of our people.

Again the whispering thought came to me, _You held the way in your hand, and you cast it aside. _

_If only you had kept your grasp upon it. If only you had taken the Ring_.

I heard the distant jeering, laughing howls as the enemy's catapults loosed their fire upon us. And although the thought brought a lump to my throat, I felt, of a sudden, a fervent thankfulness that Théodhild and Findemir had died before this day.

There was despair and anguish enough in knowing that before many days passed, Minas Tirith might be naught but smouldering ruins – and her people might be no more than carrion, ammunition for the Dark Lord's catapults.

I thanked the Valar that I no longer had a wife and child for whom to fear; that I need not now be tormented by visions of what they would suffer at the hands of Sauron's legions.

Without, I think, fully noticing that I was doing so, I had been taking periodic swigs from my canteen as I scowled into the darkness. It was only when I uncorked the canteen and found that my last drink had all but emptied it, that I paused to take stock again of my physical condition.

_Nothing to worry about yet_, I told myself. But neither was my condition all that I would have wished it to be.

It was starting, I thought: the first whispers of chill in my bones despite the smoky heat of the air, the first intimations of the numbness that would steal all feeling from my limbs if I let it work upon me long enough.

An irritatingly irrelevant question sprang into my mind: _I wonder if dependence on the River would still trouble me if I had the Ring? Or would the Ring's power overwhelm that of the River?_

_There's a useless speculation for you, Boromir, _I snapped to myself. _Might just as well waste time wondering what would be different now if you'd never died – or if you never went looking for Imladris in the first place_.

I took another pilgrimage to the guardhouse to refill my canteen, with Svip trooping silently beside me. Before we set out, Svip asked my help in opening up the chest he was using as his firing platform, to stow Finn's lute safely inside it.

I glimpsed an expression of dread on Svip's face as the chest creaked open, and it was no difficult task to guess what he might be thinking. I would have been willing to wager that for an instant as the chest opened, Svip envisioned piles of severed heads within it, as in the chests in the room below us.

In the guardhouse, I swiftly filled the canteen, wet my neckerchief and poured out water for Svip to rinse his hands and face. We made our return in haste, getting away as rapidly as might be from the imagined accusing stares of the heads of butchered Men.

It was three hours, perhaps, after true night sank in on us, that the Lord Steward again arrived on his rounds to visit the defenders at the Gate.

Rather than simply ordering his Men at ease, this time my father commanded his entourage to disperse and take up position along the wall. He strode to the embrasure atop the centre-point of the Gate, where he exchanged a few words with Captain Cirion. Then he stood at the embrasure, stiff and motionless like a guardian statue, staring out at the black expanse of the Pelennor Fields.

At most other times in my life, these actions on his part would have annoyed me, as I speculated whether the Steward believed me incapable of holding the Gate without his reinforcement. That night, I found, I felt no such annoyance. I was glad simply to have my father there, even standing at my side with bleak expression and eyes dark and cold as the shadows of Moria.

The dim day of fears seemed to have taken its toll on all of us. My father's Men looked on the brink of exhaustion, as though they had spent the day locked in combat rather than patrolling the walls. My brief conversation with Húrin Keeper of the Keys, before he stationed himself at one of the embrasures above the Gate, was entirely lacking in the banter we both would usually have mustered. Húrin's voice seemed weighted down with weariness and foreboding.

Pippin, for his part, did manage a pallid smile at me as he hurried to join Svip on his firing-platform. But I thought that I read worn desperation in the young Hobbit's face.

Darkly I wondered which burden had been more painful for Pippin and the others to shoulder: the Nazgûl circling overhead, or the constant struggle to live up to my father's expectations.

And my father, I thought, seemed more borne down by the day's trials than did any other of us.

Perhaps others would not have seen it to look at him. Perhaps they would only have seen the all-knowing Steward of Gondor, icy eyes judging every move and every thought. But to me, the contrast between the Lord Steward's bearing that morn, when he had seemed ready to overcome any challenge, and what I saw that night, could not have been more stark.

It came to me that there was a look I had seen often upon his face since my return, that I could barely remember ever seeing from him before. Too often now, his gaze seemed to turn from the scenes around us, to wander down dreary pathways lit by no gleam of hope.

A pessimist and a cynic my father had always been. Or he had been, at least, for as long as I had known him.

But always before, in his darkest moments and his most cutting flights of cynicism, I had never doubted that he still held some hope. Always he made me believe that _he_ yet believed we had a chance of victory, and that our duty as the Lords of Gondor was to turn that chance for victory into reality.

That night, as I studied his haunted face, I could not avoid the thought that my father's last spark of hope had guttered out.

We stood in silence. I took a swig from my canteen. As I brought the canteen down from my lips, I realised that the Steward was staring fixedly at my hands.

Looking down, I saw what he had seen. I had not felt it, but the fingers of my left hand, grasping the canteen, were trembling.

Grimly setting my jaw against the curses I wanted to utter, I corked the canteen and replaced it at my belt. I clasped my hands behind me, clinging stubbornly to the fiction that if neither my father nor I could see that sign of my weakness, it was not happening.

I thought of asking him if he had visited Faramir that day, and what was the latest news of my brother's condition. But I held myself back from asking those questions.

I had no wish to hear the probable answer, that he had not visited Faramir at all.

With the foe and the dark closed around us, I had to face the possibility that my father and I might have few conversations left between us. And if fate turned forever against us, I did not wish one of our last discussions to become just another argument.

"How fares it with you, My Lord?" I asked at last, when I'd concluded that if I waited for him to speak first, we'd be waiting till the next Age.

The Steward looked at me with an expression of mild surprise, as though he'd forgotten that anyone around him was capable of speech.

"Well enough," he said. "How fares it with you, Boromir?"

"Well enough, as well," I said stolidly, thinking that of our two statements, his was most certainly a bigger lie than mine.

I hesitated a moment, then I determined to face the Kine of Araw head on. I asked, "Will you tell me what it is that troubles you, sir?"

"What it is that troubles me?" he repeated. "Your return from death has rendered you deaf and blind, my son, if you must ask that question while our friends from Mordor howl without."

It was with an effort that I restrained myself from rolling my eyes. "Sir," I argued, "you know as well as I, that the mere presence of the enemy has never put such despair on your countenance."

As he opened his mouth to snap a reply, I charged on. "The foe has never reached the White City's walls in our lifetimes, either. This I know. But there is more to it than that. Something else preys upon your mind, and tells you that it is vain even to hope."

His gaze lingered on me, irritation and impatience vying for dominance with his new, chilling aura of despair.

"Will you not tell me, My Lord?" I pursued. "Will you not tell me what it is that burdens you, that I may share the burden?"

"No," he said. "I will not."

Those brief words hurt far more than I was willing to let him see. Nevertheless, I ploughed onward. "It is the duty of the Steward's Heir to share his father's burdens. Will you not let me share yours?"

"Not these burdens, Boromir," my father said, his voice barely over a whisper.

I heaved a sigh. For a moment I stared out at the enemy's trenches of fire. "You have seen visions of our fate?" I tried again then, turning to look at him.

For a moment there was a wild, almost hysteric glint in his eyes, that made me think he might launch into some angry reply that would reveal the answer I was seeking. But he gripped hold of his emotions again, and said only, "Aye. I have seen visions."

"And you will tell me nothing of them?"

The Lord Steward studied me. Then he spoke, almost as though speaking to himself.

"I have asked myself still, throughout this day, if I can truly believe that you are my son." I started to protest at that, but he waved my words aside. "For this moment, it does not matter if you are my son or if you are not. If you are the tool of our foe, then I will not betray to you the future that is revealed to me. And if you are indeed Boromir, I would not have you see what I have seen, before you must."

His speech shook me; that I will not deny. But I was far from through with arguing.

"Sir," I said, "you have told me that visions do not always speak the truth. They show futures that may be, but are not yet certain. They are couched in riddles, and played out on the stage of dream worlds, where nothing may be as it appears. Why would you believe that this vision speaks true, more than any other? Why, except that the Nameless One wishes all of us to despair, and you most of all, for it is on you that Gondor pins her hopes! It is the voice of the Nazgûl that I hear speaking now, My Lord, not yours!"

That last shot of mine sent anger springing into his eyes, as I had hoped that it would. He did not give me the satisfaction of shouting out one of his tirades, but at least there seemed more life in his gaze than there had been a moment before.

He observed with a sneer, "I suppose it is vain to speaking of giving up hope, to one who has returned from the dead."

"Perhaps you are right, sir. And if I have returned, why should it not then be possible for your hope to return as well?"

"My hope?" he echoed, painful mockery in his voice. "Will you tell me, Lord Boromir, what cause you see left for hope?"

"Aye, I will tell you, My Lord," I snapped. "I see the cause that you taught me throughout all my life. Even if a leader sees no hope, his duty is to act as though he does, for the sake of those who follow him. Will you tell me now that those words apply to every leader save for you? Our people need you, sir. They need you to be their Steward as of old, their proof that the hope of victory lives yet."

He studied me still, anger and despair glittering in his eyes. For a moment I turned away from him, that I might master my own anger before making the attempt once again.

My gaze lit on Pippin and Svip, standing on the chest nearby. They were speaking in low tones, Svip holding his crossbow between them and apparently instructing Pippin on the weapon's workings.

I turned back to my father. "I will give you another cause for hope, My Lord," I said, "if our people's need is no longer enough for you. What of Master Peregrin? If _we_ are driven near mad by horror, how much worse must all of this be for him, who does not even have the comfort of seeing the walls of his home? He has pledged his sword to you, and bound his fortune to yours. Were they empty words when you vowed to reward his fealty with love, and his valour with honour? If they were not merely words, then you owe it him to let him see you yet strong. My Lord, prove to him by your hope and courage that our City will not fall!"

"And how if _those_ are the words which are empty?" the Lord Steward whispered, his voice creeping through my mind to send shivers along my bones. "How if all the hopes to which we yet cling are naught but lies?"

"Then we will die, My Lord," I said. "But since we must die, let us die fighting for our victory, not cringing, moaning our despair."

Through long, silent moments he stared at me. Then his gaze dropped to his hands, clasped together tightly on the embrasure before him.

His voice, when he spoke again, was so soft I could scarcely hear it.

"You asked what it is that troubles me, son," he murmured. "It is this. I cannot see how – I cannot see how I am to bear the pain of losing you a second time."

Fire crackled in the City behind us. Emotion welled in my throat, cutting off all words. I reached out and put my hands on both of his.

"None of us need lose the others, Father," I told him. "If our fate is as grim as you say, then we will all dwell in the Barrow World ere long. And we will all of us be together there."

He heaved a shuddering sigh. Then he looked up to meet my eyes. A smile touched his face – a smile rueful and infinitely weary, but still the first smile I had seen from him since this discussion of ours began.

"How can I fail to take heart," he observed wryly, "since you the state the case with such cheering sentiments?"

I smiled back. "I learned my pessimism from a master of it, My Lord. The same teacher from whom I learned that despair is a luxury of ordinary Men that the family of the Stewards can never have."

He gave a brief snort that might have been a laugh. "Very well, Master Boromir," he said, gazing on the plains once more. "Since you wish me to cling to hope, my hope is that you will live for a son of yours to lecture you on your duty."

I could not help chuckling a little at that. "So do I, sir," I answered. "And I hope that you will live for a grandson of yours to lecture you."

He spoke in tones of disdain, "You clearly presume that your son will be a prodigy, if he is to be giving lectures while I still walk upon this Middle Earth."

"Of course he'll be a prodigy, sir," I pointed out, "being your grandchild."

He sighed impatiently and shook his head, but I knew very well that he was pleased.

Together we watched the darkness and the flames. Not until nearing the middle night, did the strategy of our Foe advance to its next stage.

For hours they had kept us waiting. Their fiery missiles they continued to launch at us with bitter regularity. Behind us, a good two-thirds of the First Circle was now ablaze. I did not need even to turn and look to see the evidence of that. It seemed that scarce a minute passed without the fire-fighters' trumpets announcing that yet another building had caught alight. The glow from the fires cast its bloody-hued light over all of us, as though Mount Doom had picked itself up and migrated to a new home on the slopes of Mindolluin.

I knew from glances behind me and from the periodic reports that my father received, that the fire crews were succeeding still in keeping the main roads clear, and holding open our route of retreat to the Second Level. As doughtily as Men could fight, the crews were fighting to hold back the fires' spread.

But I knew also that they could not fight forever. Unless something changed, to slow or halt the fiery bombardment, the time would come when the sheer exhaustion of our fire-fighters did the Enemy's work for him.

Nigh to twelve hours had passed since the barrage of fire began. We could not afford to keep these fire crews on duty much longer; not if we yet held hope of preserving any portion of the First Circle. And not if we intended to fulfil our Men's trust in us, and not demand more of them than Man could physically endure.

"My Lord," I began, bowing to my father. He did not turn to look at me, his grim gaze fixed unchangingly upon the fire-pocked plains.

"My Lord, we should commence operations to transfer out the fire-fighters here and replace them with fresh Men from the higher Levels. These Men have laboured for twelve hours straight. We should not ask more of them when there are fresh troops who can take over their task, and who have had naught to do all this day but to cool their heels and wait – "

"Be quiet, Boromir," my father snapped suddenly, thrusting out his hand in a peremptory gesture. I froze with my mouth open, contemplating some angry retort, but thinking better of it. Resignedly I shut my mouth and scowled into the dark, trying to catch some sight or sound of whatever my father was watching.

For another moment he stood in silence, motionless as the statues in Rath Dínen.

"They are coming," he said then, matter-of-fact as though announcing guests for the daymeal. He turned and commenced firing off orders to his attendants.

"Let the braziers be lit. I want arrows of fire loosed at the enemy the instant they move within range. Command the archers and the catapult crews to stand ready. My compliments to Lord Duinhir, and relay to him my request that his archers on the Second and Third levels open fire as soon as he believes their shots have any chance of telling. Find the Lord Imrahil and request that he and his knights report to me immediately."

Men scattered to carry out my father's orders. No sign or movement from the enemy could yet be seen, but the preparations commanded were set into motion without murmur of protest or doubt. It was an experience to which all of us were accustomed, who had fought before under the Steward Denethor's command. I thought, indeed, that I saw glimpses of new cheerfulness and confidence amongst the Men around us, at this evidence that the Lord Steward could yet see things concealed from ordinary Men.

I wondered if my Uncle Imrahil's steps had been guided by presentiment as well – a presentiment of his own, or perhaps more likely, of Mithrandir's. For the Prince, the Wizard and the Swan Knights hastened into the Steward's presence almost at once, far swifter than the time that would have been required for my father's command to reach them unless they had been virtually right under our feet.

"Imrahil," my father greeted his brother-in-law without ceremony. "Go you, with all of your followers who may be horsed, to the Court of the Gate. Mount up and hold yourselves in readiness to make counter-charge against any incursion, when the Gate is breached."

"When the Gate is breached –" Imrahil echoed in astonishment. He bowed low, giving himself a chance to take control of the expression on his face. "Aye, My Lord," he said, straightening once more.

"Have you commands for me, My Lord Steward?" Lord Mithrandir inquired in mild tones.

I more than half expected that my father would tell the Wizard in no uncertain terms where he might insert himself. But in that belief, I was mistaken. With only a trace of his usual dislike, the Steward answered, "You may choose your own ground, Lord Stormcrow. In this extreme, your aid will be welcome."

"I thank you, My Lord." The Wizard smiled and bowed, needing no words to complete the logical next clause of the Steward's statement, that in any other than our present extreme, he would be as welcome as the pox.

"Shadowfax and I will join your company at the Gate, Lord Prince," Mithrandir continued to Imrahil, "if you will have us."

"You are welcome," the Prince confirmed, unlike my father, sounding as though he meant it.

My father turned to confer with Húrin of the Keys, and Imrahil stepped to my side. "When the Gate is breached?" he asked me in an undertone. "Is this his pessimism solely, or –"

"Visions," I finished grimly. I shrugged and went on, "I intend to see to it that these visions do not come true."

My uncle looked on me with troubled gaze. Then he managed a smile, thrusting out his hand to me once more. "Aye," was all that he said as we clasped hands.

For a few moments again all seemed quiet, after Imrahil's party took their leave. I sent one of the orderlies to fetch a longbow and quiver for me, but apart from his departure and return, nothing about us seemed to move.

Again my father and I stood at the embrasure together. In the stillness, almost I doubted that the assault was as imminent as the Steward seemed to believe. Then out of the dark, there came something else.

Softly at first, even as the cries of the Nazgûl had begun too quietly for our ears to truly take hold of them, a new sound commenced. It throbbed at the edge of hearing as the roll of distant thunder. Then it rose, and we knew it for what it was.

Drums.

The drums of the enemy sounded forth, in the slow, steady, mocking drumbeat that had haunted the Fellowship's flight through the caverns of Moria.

I shared a grim glance with my father. Then a sudden gasp from Pippin drew my eyes to him, at the embrasure to our right.

The young Hobbit had fallen asleep perhaps an hour before, his head and arms resting on the embrasure where he stood at Svip's side. Unlikely though it seemed, he had somehow managed to sleep through all the commotion about him, of my father barking out commands, orderlies racing hither and yon, and Imrahil and his Swan Knights marching nigh to the spot where Pippin stood.

I had been a little surprised that my father permitted him to sleep on, but the Steward had many other things on his mind. Now, however, Pippin woke, the drums cutting through his sleep as all other noise had not. With a sudden intake of breath, he jerked his head upright and stared wildly into the dark.

Svip reached out and grabbed Pippin's right shoulder to steady him, at the same moment as I reached out to grip his left.

The Hobbit turned to smile shakily at each of us in turn. When he looked up at me, I saw horror in his gaze, as if his thoughts, just as mine, had followed the drumbeats back to Moria's lightless tunnels.

Almost as though I spoke from some force outside my own volition, I heard myself quote words that Mithrandir had read in the last grim testament of the Dwarves of Moria.

"_Drums_," I murmured. "_Drums in the deep_."

Pippin nodded, his eyes as haunted as though, in truth, we stood in Moria once more. Whispering, he added, "_We cannot get out_."

I shook my head then, trying to loose both of us from the horror. "Aye, but we did get out," I told him. "All of us, in the end. Even Gandalf, though his route was rather longer than the one the rest of us followed. Do not fear, Pippin. We can conquer again, drums or no drums."

"Aye," Pippin managed, with an effort. His troubled glance moved from me to my father. He hesitated. Then Pippin gulped down a breath and squared his shoulders. With more courage than many Men would have mustered, he stepped to my father's side and bowed.

"Have you commands for me, My Lord?" the Steward's Esquire piped up, drawing the bleak, icy gaze down upon him.

My father studied him a moment. Then, ever so slightly, the Lord Steward's expression thawed.

"I have, Master Peregrin," he said. "Join those re-supplying the defenders' arrows. See that no Man's quiver stands empty, and you will do as much as any to secure Minas Tirith's survival."

"Yes, My Lord," Pippin said.

The Steward turned to stare outward once more, interrogating the darkness with his glance. Looking rather lost, Pippin cast about him, seeking to identify some personage to whom he might report and commence his new duties.

I crouched down by Pippin's side and pointed to one of the orderlies. "That young fellow over there should be able to give you your assignments."

Pippin gave me a grateful smile. He turned to wave at Svip, who waved back. Then, as if feeling that any hesitation might lead to disaster, Pippin squared his shoulders once again, strode over to the orderly and saluted.

I stood and stepped back to the embrasure. Beside me on his firing-chest, Svip was fitting a bolt into his crossbow. Suddenly he stopped and cocked his head, as though some new sound had reached him through the _doom, doom_ of the enemy's drums. The water being stared fiercely into the dark.

"They're moving," he hissed to me. "There they are."

I squinted at the blackened plains.

"There," Svip repeated tensely. "Can you see them yet?"

I sighed a little as I answered, "Yes."

Their vanguard advanced, passing through the wall of fire by pathways of uncut ground that they had left at intervals along the trenches.

I grimaced as my eyes better made out the tightly-packed columns approaching. It did not need Svip's eyesight to show that their numbers were vast. The vanguard alone could over-run Minas Tirith if once they made it past our wall.

_That_, I told myself, _we are here to ensure that they do not achieve_.

Their captain, wherever his talents might lie, must have little interest in the doings or fate of his infantry. This was made abundantly clear to me in the scraggly disarray of their columns. Many the columns were, in truth, spilling from behind the trenches at point after point like great hordes of ants. But ants, I thought, would have better order in their advance. These creatures were huddled together as though proximity to their neighbours would make them invincible, little reckoning the havoc our archers would wreak on them the instant they moved within range.

That truth was soon to be revealed. My father's voice rang out in command, "They are moving into range. Catapult crews, stand by. Men on the Gate, number off by twos. Prepare to light your arrows and fire by volleys."

Even as the defenders on the First Wall obeyed, we heard behind us the shouts of command from the Second Wall. In the next instant the first volleys from the archers of Morthond on the Second Level sang out far above our heads. A curtain of arrows sailed forth directly above us, aimed for the enemy column that was roughly following the City Road toward the Gate. To south and north of our position I glimpsed others of Morthond's volleys, each targeting one of the bunched and ragged columns.

It was a beautiful sight, I thought, as the myriad darts of flame soared through the blackness and then arced downward upon our foes. Scattered cheers sounded along the wall, as through the murk, we discerned the deadly impact of Morthond's arrows. Like scythed wheat, the foremost ranks of their columns were mown down.

I thought I saw a moment of wavering in their ranks that were now so rudely thrust to the fore. For an instant, I thought that they might even break and retreat. But their commanders must have shouted some threat that made them think the better of it. The columns pressed on, stepping over, around, or upon their comrades' crumpled forms.

The Steward's voice rang forth once more. "Light your arrows! Volley fire by ranks! First rank, fire!" An instant's pause followed, punctuated by the zinging of the arrows' flight. Then came the next command. "Second rank, fire!"

For a brief, blessed time we had naught of which to think but the rhythm of the volleys. I fired with the first rank. Svip fired with the second, though again he had to face the frustration of his crossbow's range being lesser than the longbows'. For now, he was forced to content himself with aiming only for those few of the enemy who raced past the rest of their column.

Their columns marched on, heedless of growing piles of dead in their path. The column that we faced, on the road to the Great Gate, was mirrored countless times to north and to south.

_They are counting our archers_, I thought uneasily as I fired. _They are testing our firepower with their infantry's lives_.

It was, I thought, another mocking jibe from our Enemy, rubbing our noses in the fact that he had troops enough to care nothing for how many he sacrificed.

But I could see no help for it. I did not see that we had the choice to hold our fire. It mattered little if he knew our garrison's strength to the last Man. Every foeman we did not slay now was one we would face later, one who might yet live to bring slaughter and horror to Minas Tirith's streets.

Of a sudden, the form of their advance altered. The ragged, battered columns lurched to a halt, then spread out a rough skirmish line, taking cover where they could, behind their comrades' corpses.

"Archers and catapult crews!" my father yelled. "Independent fire at will!"

It was a comfortless few minutes for their troops upon the plain, as arrows and boulders poured upon them like hail. But we were to have little time to rejoice in their discomfort.

The drums rolled louder, until they seemed to sound within my skull. From behind the trenches of fire came vast black shapes as of houses moving through the dark, their accursed _mûmakil_ dragging behind them catapults and many-storied siege towers. In the paths marked by the corpses of their infantry they came, trampling their fallen beneath them.

I had thought I'd accepted the bleakness of our situation, that no device of the enemy would have any power to surprise me. Even so, I was hard-pressed not to swear at the numbers that pressed forward now, seeming to my bitter gaze as though they had a _mûmak_ and a siege engine for every Man in Minas Tirith.

Through the din of the drums I heard my father heave a long, weary sigh. I glanced to him, but for only an instant did I surprise on his face again his look of empty despair. Then he seemed to throw that feeling from him, as once again he yelled out in command. "Archers, re-form ranks! Concentrate all fire upon those engines. None of them is to reach our walls!" Studiedly my father did not look at me, as though he knew, but would not acknowledge, that I had seen the despair upon his face.

The night waned. One hour vanished into the next, and the next. We fired on. Their engines crawled across the plain.

Here and there, the wooden scaffolding of siege engine or catapult leapt into flames. Screams of Orcs and Men caught in the towers of fire carried eeriely over the roll of the drums. Now and again, wild trumpeting sounded over the fields, that at first I thought must come from some strange war horns of the enemy. Only when we saw one _mûmak_ running at full tilt parallel to the wall and bellowing its terror of the blazing tower that jolted in the animal's wake, did I realise the sounds of the trumpets came from the beasts themselves.

None of their engines yet had survived to reach our wall. But now there came something else, a strange, vast construction lurching down the corpse-choked road toward us like some gigantic long-legged insect.

I heard Svip breathe out, "What is it?"

For longer than I liked, I was asking myself that same question. Then in the fire-reddened light, I saw it and I knew.

_Here_, I thought, _is the weapon the Dark Lord has relied upon to cast down our Gate_.

Six armoured _mûmakil _dragged behind them a wheeled creation of scaffolding, twice again as tall as they. From the scaffolding swung mighty chains, their creaking sounding forth like the caws of great birds of prey. From them a battering ram hung suspended, swinging forward and back as the nightmare structure rolled on.

A company marched at the scaffolding's either side, bawling out some cackling song of blood-lust and hatred. No Men or Orcs, however great in number, could wield the battering ram they guarded. But they would have no need to wield it. Behind the ram lumbered creatures that could only be mountain-trolls. Tall as the scaffolding some of them stood, and as huge and misshapen as though chunks torn from the mountains themselves had been ensorcelled into hideous life.

I glared at the trolls, and hoped that Pippin would not contrive to stick his head over the parapet and see them.

My father gave a short, harsh laugh, that made me turn in surprise to stare at him. Noting my regard, he snorted derisively and fixed a bitter smile on his face.

"Well," he remarked, "they have taken long enough."

Before I could inquire what the blazes he meant by that, he turned and commenced bellowing orders. "Lord Húrin! You are with me. We will take horse and join our cavalry in the Court of the Gate. Where is my esquire?"

I looked around in search of Pippin. At the same moment my father and I caught sight of the white-faced and wide-eyed Hobbit. Pippin thrust a basket of arrows at the youthful squire standing next to him, who already carried one basket and had to juggle them precariously until the Man at the next embrasure turned to take one basket and set it down on the battlement. Pippin was running toward my father, heedless of the unfortunate youth's predicament.

"There you are," the Steward snapped. "Master Peregrin, you will ride with us. Húrin, I am sure your steed can bear the halfling's weight along with your own?"

Neither Húrin nor Pippin looked delighted with the prospect, but the Keeper of the Keys only bowed and acknowledged, "I am sure she can, My Lord." He crossed to Pippin, who cast a panicked glance at me. "Shall we go, Master Halfling?" Húrin said politely.

I tried to smile encouragingly at Pippin, but I fear my smile held little comfort.

"Thank you, My Lord," Pippin managed.

They set out for the stairs, Lord Húrin attempting a conversation with the question, "Are there many horses in your homeland?"

I did not hear Pippin's reply. My father turned to me and said briskly, "Boromir, I place the Gate in your command."

I was tempted to remind him that he had done so once already this day, and then had come striding in and took command himself. But I forebore to comment. Likely he would not have dignified my words with a reaction, in any case.

"Aye, My Lord," I said. I stepped closer to him and demanded in an undertone that I hoped few of the Men around us would hear, "Sir, why must you take Pippin with you? What use do you believe that he will be in battle?"

The Lord Steward questioned haughtily, "Where else should an esquire be in combat save at the side of his master?"

"Yet you have never taken any of your other esquires into combat, sir, until they are old enough and trained enough to stand a fighting chance. Why will you treat Peregrin any differently?"

My father's expression unexpectedly softened. He said quietly, "Calm yourself, Boromir. Húrin will guard him well. He will keep Peregrin from harm, if he can."

I snapped, "Aye, so you condemn Húrin to death, as well, to be cut down as he neglects his own defence in seeking to protect the halfling!"

My father gazed at me with an expression of pity. "We are all condemned to death," he answered, barely over a whisper. "Better the halfling dies swiftly in battle, than for his fate to hunt him down street by street through the burning City."

I gasped out, "My Lord –" but my father cut me off.

"Goodbye, Boromir," he said, with a melancholy smile. He turned on his heel and strode away from me.

I forced myself to face the foe, instead of chasing down my father and screaming curses at him.

"All Men on the Gate!" I heard myself shout. "Concentrate all fire on that battering ram and the trolls!"

While the Lord Steward and I argued, the ram and its guardians had advanced close enough for us to truly see what we were facing. I cursed beneath my breath. The ram seemed a creation of devilry, a fitting weapon for the vast, hulking trolls that strode by its sides. It seemed fashioned of the trunk of some gigantic tree, more massive, I thought, than any I had seen in my life, except for perhaps a few of the trees in Lothlórien. The head of it was likely black steel, but in the fitful light it seemed the living reality of the beast in whose likeness it was carved: a great black wolf, fangs bared as it snarled a promise to rip the life from every creature in its path.

Whether spells of magic guarded that battering ram, I know not. But whether by spell or by craft, no flames from our arrows took hold on its scaffolding or the ram itself, though many an arrow lodged in the structure's timber and gradually burned itself out. Arrow upon arrow pierced the armour and hides of _mûmakil_ and mountain-trolls, till the monsters bristled like demon porcupines. Yet still they plodded over hills of slain, though twice we saw _mûmakil_ frenzied by pain trample scores of their Orc attendants before they could be whipped back under control.

The ram was all but upon us. It was near enough that I could see the maddened glare of the _mûmakil_'s crimson eyes. Still we fired, flaming arrows plunging into ram and scaffold, _mûmakil_ and trolls. Still none of our targets caught alight; still none of the monsters fell.

The drums thundered. The Orcs below screamed taunts and curses up at us.

Suddenly the Orcs fell into silence.

Behind them on the road, amid the hills of trampled dead, a black shape appeared.

It was a horseman, though he seemed larger and more menacing than any Man should seem. I could not tell if I had merely not noticed him before, or if he indeed had appeared out of nothing. He sat astride a black horse, and was cloaked and hooded all in black. Slowly and calmly he rode toward the Gate, as though he had nothing to fear from any dart or arrow.

And truth to tell, it seemed that he did not. For as he rode toward us, all sound of bow and catapult ceased.

I looked about me. Every Man that I could see had frozen where he stood, eyes wide with terror and hands trembling at their sides

Wildly I cast a glance behind me, down to the Court of the Gate. I could see my father and the cavalry of Dol Amroth waiting in good formation below. I could not tell if the same terror gripped them as had seized our Men above. Many of the horses champed and shied, whinnying in protest. But it seemed, at least, as though their riders retained enough of their own wills to hold the horses under control.

I thought I saw a reason for that. In the first rank of the knights, stood a grey steed with a rider clad all in white. A pale, pure light seemed to glow from that rider's form. His horse alone made no move of fear.

I turned back to the road before the Gate. The black rider had drawn his steed to a halt at the side of the mountain-trolls. Somehow he did not seem dwarfed by them, though his head reached scarcely to their knees. Reality notwithstanding, it was the trolls that seemed shrunk into insignificance by him.

The rider raised one black-gauntleted hand.

With roaring yells, the trolls seized hold of the massive wolf-headed ram.

Once, twice, thrice they swung it, on the third swing letting it fly at the Gate.

The ram hit with a bone-jarring thud, sending tremors shivering through the wall beneath our feet. But the Great Gate held firm.

I heard yells of outraged frustration from the Orcs on the ram's flanks, and snarls from the maws of the mountain-trolls. I smiled at the sounds of their rage.

Their great weapon's blow had made no more of an impact than a nearby thunderclap, fearsome to the ears of Men but as nothing to the iron and steel of Minas Tirith's Gate.

But the satisfaction I felt was to be short-lived.

Their drums rolled again, then seemed to fall suddenly silent.

The Black Captain rose in his stirrups, brandishing an ice-pale sword. He cried aloud words that I did not know. But I knew that his words spoke of malice and of power, and hatred deeper than the chasm of Khazad-dûm.

The cry rang forth, echoing about us. My comrades stood frozen. Some had their hands pressed to their ears; some hid their faces. Others simply stared in horror.

The mountain-trolls seized their monstrous ram once more, swinging it on its chains. One last time they swung it back. Then with all their might they heaved it forward, against the Gate.

The impact this time knocked me from my feet. All around me, the defenders of the Gate were flung to the wall like toy soldiers swept aside by the hand of a petulant child.

I staggered up again. To one side of me, I saw Svip, lying face down on his firing-platform with his head buried in his arms. At my other side, Captain Cirion was yet standing. He clung to the parapet as though battered by a deadly tempest, that at any instant might carry him off in the arms of the winds.

The Gate still held. But of a sudden I knew, with a certainty that brooked no questioning, that it would not hold for long.

There was more than the strength of the ram and the mountain-trolls in this second strike. The Black Captain's shout, I was certain, wielded more power than any blow that the massive trolls could muster.

I thought, _Another cry from him, and the Gate may fall_.

In my memory I heard myself, demanding to know of Mithrandir where lay the good in my lack of terror at the Nazgûl's screams. I heard the Wizard tell me that more than chance had guided our paths, and had left me free to face the Nine without fear.

The idea that sprang to my mind was a fool's hope, of that I had no doubt.

_You are not Mithrandir_, I told myself scornfully. _What do you think you are going to do, plant yourself in front of the Black Captain and tell him, "You cannot pass?"_

That tactic had not worked out all that well for Mithrandir.

But it gave the rest of us the time that we needed, to get out of Moria. In that sense, I reminded myself, it had worked out, after all.

I did not truly know what I thought I could accomplish in our current plight. What good would it do, even if I could hold back the enemy as the Wizard had done at Khazad-dûm? It was not as though Minas Tirith's people had anywhere to run.

But in this extremity, a fool's hope was better than no hope at all.

I seized Captain Cirion by the shoulder. If I shouted loudly enough, I hoped I could reach him through the thunder of drums, the taunts from a thousand enemy throats, and the terror.

"Captain!" I yelled. "I am going out there. I leave command of the Gate in your hands."

The Ranger Captain's wide, horrified eyes blinked a few times, which I hoped indicated some level of understanding. I turned and started for the stairs.

To my surprise, the Captain moved. He lunged after me and grabbed my arm.

"Do not do it, sir!" he forced out, his voice hoarse and painful as though from years without speech. "You'll be killed. Do not go. My Lord, stay here!"

"I am going, Cirion," I repeated steadily. "You have command of the Gate."

I raced down the stairs. Hitting the street at a dead run, I doubled back toward the guardhouse tower. I made my way through a confusion of Men and horses clogging the streets, as the animals bolted from the Court of the Gate in the madness of the Wraith King's cries.

In the Court, I caught sight of my father, still facing the Gate. He yet held his steed in his command, though the horse tossed its head and stamped the cobblestones in terror. Imrahil, and Húrin with Pippin clinging desperately to his waist, had managed to keep their seats as well, but both horses fought their masters' control as though they might bolt at any instant. Only Mithrandir's Shadowfax stood unmoving, the Meara and the Wizard as still and steadfast as though horse and rider alike were graven of stone.

As I raced the last few feet to the tower door, I glimpsed a diminutive figure running the same perilous route that I had just taken, weaving a path between the flying hooves of maddened horses. He reached my side at the guardhouse door, and stood panting for breath, staring up at me.

"What are you doing, Svip?" I cried. "Go back to the wall; Cirion needs all the archers he can get."

Svip shook his head. His eyes were wild with fear, but his face was stubbornly set. Through the din of the drums, the yelling Men and the horses, I heard him shout, "I'm going with you!"

"Aren't you afraid?" I yelled back at him.

"Yes! But you'll need a horse, won't you?"

I felt tears sting at my eyes. I wanted to argue with him, but we did not have the time.

And Svip was right. I had little hope in combating the Nazgûl, in any case. But at least I might stand slightly more of a fighting chance, if I met him on horseback rather than wandering afoot into the mass of Orcs, trolls and _mûmakil_.

I shouted, "Come on, then!"

As I turned to step into the tower guardroom, the voice of the Black Captain once again rent the air. The Nazgûl's incantation rang out, rolling upon us with the boom of mighty ocean waves.

In the midst of that cry there came another thunderous crash. The impact hurled Svip to his hands and knees and threw me against the tower wall.

I almost did not dare to turn my head as the massive tremors began to subside, and look toward the Gate.

But the Gate still stood. Somehow, it still stood.

I could no longer pick out my father and the others amid the mass of rearing and fallen horses in the Court of the Gate. But I told myself that I had no time to fear for them. Reaching down to seize Svip by the hand and drag him to his feet, I propelled both of us through the guardroom door.

The Nazgûl's fell voice sank into silence at last, succeeded by the steady _doom, doom_ of the enemy's drums.

One of our Men crouched beneath the arrow slit window, his arms flung up to protect his head and his bow fallen from his hands. I strode across the floor that still seemed shuddering beneath my feet, gripped the Man's shoulders and pulled him to a standing position. His eyes stared wildly into mine.

"Listen to me!" I shouted. "You are a warrior of Gondor. Gondor has need of you now. I am going out of the sally port. You are to bolt the door behind me. Do you hear me? You are to bolt the door, and remain on guard to open it for me on my return."

Not, I thought, that I was likely to return.

"Yes," the soldier managed faintly. "Yes, My Lord."

He remained standing when I let go of his shoulders, as I had not been entirely certain he would be able to do. With Svip at my side, I crossed to the dark iron sally port door. Then I heaved back the thick steel bar that held it bolted closed.

I felt almost in a dream as I walked through the sally port, into the domain of screaming thousands of our foes. It occurred to me to wonder if the calm I felt was the calm of a madman, for surely no other but a madman would act as I was acting now.

The black steel wolf's head of their battering ram hung from its chains before me, mountain trolls swinging it in preparation for another shattering blow. At their side, the Nazgûl sat astride his motionless steed, forming a grim mirror image of Mithrandir and Shadowfax at the other side of the Gate.

I heard, but scarcely heeded, as Orc guards at the ram's flanks broke into amazed exclamations, more and more of them turning to stare at Svip and at me.

I heard the sally port door thud closed behind me. I prayed that our comrade had indeed remembered to shove the bolt home.

In the corner of my eye, I saw a tall, grey shape surge into view.

"Get on!" Svip the horse shouted. "Now!"

I sprang to his back, for once not even remembering to feel any concern over my usual awkwardness on horseback. Gripping his flanks with my legs and winding my left hand in his mane, I drew my sword.

"Nazgûl!" I bellowed. "Turn and face me!"

Slowly, the vast figure turned. Eyes of red fire blazed from the black shadows of his hood.

I felt Svip trembling beneath me. But even under the wraith lord's burning scrutiny, my friend held his ground.

I rubbed my left hand over Svip's quivering shoulder, hoping against hope to transfer some of my calm to him. And I drew in breath to yell out my challenge to my enemy.

"Ringwraith!" I shouted. "I challenge you! I, Boromir Son of Denethor, challenge you to single combat. If you have any courage left in you, then stand and fight! Fight me if you dare, Wraith Lord. You cannot pass."


	16. Chapter Sixteen: The Battle of Minas Tir...

Author's Note (November 2003): Dear All: Well, here it is! Just over three months in getting this chapter out to you – which is more than long enough. My usual apologies, and my usual hopes that somebody will still read this! The ending sequence may still be a little rough, as I was trying so hard just to get this chapter finished. Oh, for anyone who may have been reading the story from the beginning recently, I apologise for the odd formatting and the weird symbols for some of the punctuation in the first six or so chapters. I swear, that is not my doing – somehow it was transformed in some of the upheavals that fanfic dot net has been undergoing. I'll try to get to that and fix it sometime – but not, hopefully, before I write and post the next chapter!

_Chapter Sixteen: The Battle of Minas Tirith (Part Two)_

The Nazgûl laughed, a hollow, mocking sound like the rattle of dry bones. He flung back his hood.

I felt Svip start as though he meant to bolt. But my shape-shifting comrade checked that motion and stood fast. At the edges of my sight, I saw Orcs and even the mountain-trolls fearfully shuffle their feet, shrinking back from their Captain's side.

The black rider had no face. His hood had shrouded no head visible to mortal eyes, only a dreadful blackness. Only blackness showed between the vast armoured shoulders and a pale, gleaming crown that seemed suspended in inky nothing. His eyes of red fire gleamed from out of that dark, like stars of ill omen prophesying our doom.

Of a sudden, I remembered the brief glimpse I'd had of him before, when he swooped down from the sky above the enemy's bridges at Osgiliath. I remembered, too, Faramir's recounting of the taunts that the Black Captain had spoken into his mind. And I felt afresh all of my determination to hurl down the Captain of our foemen and grind him in the dust.

"Fool," laughed the Nazgûl, in a voice of thunder and death. "Young fool! So the Steward's whelp seeks to challenge me? Did not your last death teach you to fear death when you see it?"

"Fight me," I answered him. "We will see then who fears."

Again he laughed, and he seemed to shake his head, for the icy crown and the crimson fires moved from side to side.

His voice sank to a malignant, throbbing whisper. "Your death this time will not be so swift and merciful as your last one. But the darkness is not without mercy. You may see at last the thing that you desire. When you lie beyond all darkness, when the final shreds of flesh are stripped from you and you writhe in the gaze of the Lidless Eye, perhaps he may show you the prize for which you sold your comrades and your honour. You may see the Ring of Power, and as your broken fingers reach to grasp it, he may at last take pity on you and devour you in its fire."

Loathing and fury welled in my throat. But I forced my voice through the anger's strangling grasp.

"You should know, Ringwraith," I said. "Does he permit you and your brethren to see the Rings that once you bore? When you have pleased him, does he allow you to touch them? Does he let you kiss the trinkets for which you enslaved your countries and your souls?"

I did not know how one might read anger in the Nazgûl's faceless gaze. But it seemed that his eyes changed in colour; that the crimson fires burned darker and brighter still.

"Fool," he hissed once again. "You will plead for so pleasant a fate as death, until your pleading and your pain became all that you are."

His ice-pale sword, he brought up to a position of guard. At no visible urging from its rider, his black, silent steed took a step toward us.

And then there came a sound: a sound that I never expected in that moment, and that I now will never forget.

From some courtyard behind us in the White City, a cock crowed. It seemed as pure and beauteous a sound as a fanfare of silver trumpets, with beauty and strength enough to strike terror into any creature of darkness.

As if in answer, there came from far away another note. From the north and west, and echoing faintly off Mindolluin's slopes, there sounded horns. Hundreds upon hundreds, they seemed, all blowing wildly as one. And I knew their call.

I heard myself whisper, "The horns of the Rohirrim." Svip turned his head questioningly, and in wonder and delight I whispered to him, "The horns of the Rohirrim, Svip! Rohan is come at last."

What followed next I still can scarce believe, no more than I believed it then.

The Nazgûl Lord seemed to raise his head, listening to Rohan's horns. Then as though he were indeed some hellish dream that flees at the approach of dawn, he wheeled his steed and set out at a gallop, toward the war horns' cries.

I heard no call from the Black Rider. But voiced or no, something else heard his command and answered.

Seconds only it seemed, from when the rider turned his steed, when a croaking scream sounded out of the sky. Like lightning striking from the clouds, a new monstrosity plunged out of the dark to the Nazgûl's side.

"What is it?" Svip whispered desperately. "Boromir, what is it?"

I had no answer. Larger than the Ringwraith's mighty horse, it flapped outstretched wings that showed neither quill nor feather in the fire-reddened light. Vast webs of hide stretched between fingers on which I saw the glint of claws. Upon a long, naked neck, a beaked head bobbed. The beak opened wide and let forth another croaking cry.

Seconds were all we had to marvel at this latest horror. I could not tell if the Nazgûl leapt from one mount to the next, or if he, too, had flown. But in a rush of shadow, he was suddenly seated upon the demon creature's back. They took to the sky, vanishing in an instant into the churning blackness above us.

The wraith's riderless horse, no doubt used to such manoeuvres, turned once more and struck out at a gallop along the City Road, toward Osgiliath and the Great River.

For a moment, we and our foemen simply stared at one another.

Comical alarm showed on the faces of the Orcs before us, and plodding incomprehension on those of the mountain-trolls, as the dreadful reality sank in that their Captain had deserted them.

I would not have long to savour the looks upon their faces, I knew. Svip and I had best beat a speedy retreat if we did not wish to be sitting there as targets when the attacking forces recovered from their alarm.

But just as I sheathed my sword and opened my mouth to tell Svip that we should make ourselves scarce, a command rang forth from behind us on the White City's wall.

I thought that I recognised the voice of Ranger Captain Cirion in the shout, "Archers and catapult crews! Independent fire at will!"

What followed was as beautiful to me as had been the sound of the Rohirrim horns a moment before.

The Ringwraith's departure must have freed our Men from the terror that had held them. No sooner had the command rung out, than it was answered by a mighty barrage of flaming arrows and catapult shot, thundering down upon our astounded foemen.

Our soldiers' fear was not all that had been broken when the Nazgûl departed from among us. So, too, had ended the seeming invulnerability of the forces that assailed our Gate.

As the fiery arrows plunged into the scaffold of the great battering ram, first one and then many caught the wooden structure alight. I heard yells of dismay from the ram's guard of Orcs, and disbelieving growls from their mountain-troll allies.

The Orcs were the first to take to their heels. At first only by ones and twos, then more and more as they saw their comrades running, they began to scatter from the battering ram's flanks.

The troll nearest my vantage point snarled at a gang of the fleeing Orcs as they raced past him. Reaching down a vast gnarled hand, the troll seized one Orc and broke his back in two, with a snap that carried audibly through the whizzing and thuds of our barrage and the yells of the Orc troops.

Even as the Orc died squealing in his grasp, an arrow blossomed in the mountain-troll's throat. An instant later a boulder from our catapults smashed into the monster's head.

The felled giant toppled, clutching the broken Orc in his death grip and crushing several others that huddled in terror at his feet.

It was all that had been needed to set our attackers in full flight.

By the hundreds, the Orcs broke and ran, scrambling over the corpses of their comrades that paved the City Road. By the hundreds, they fell. They fell hewn by arrow or boulder, or crushed in the mad stampeding of the _mûmakil_, that strove now to free themselves from the great ram chained to their harnesses and the agony of the arrows lodged in their hides.

Svip took a few steps backward toward the shelter of the wall. I did not blame him. We would do well to get inside the City, and swiftly, lest our careers come to an ignominious end beneath some _mûmak_'s feet.

But the spectacle before us seemed too terrible and glorious to turn from it, even for an instant. I watched in marvelling awe as finally even the mountain-trolls opted for retreat, turning their faces to Osgiliath and carving a lumbering path through the Orcs that fled before them.

Another troll fell. He crawled on through the heaps of slain, arrows bristling so densely upon him that his hide and armour scarcely showed between them.

With a trumpeting scream, one of the _mûmakil_ thudded to its knees. For another moment it fought to rise, then the arrow-pierced beast smashed flailingly to its side. The ground shook from its fall. With creaking and groaning as fearsome as the _mûmak's_ screams, the scaffold and battering ram plummeted at last to earth.

In a frenzy of panic, the five other _mûmakil_ that were bound to the ram's scaffolding sought to run in five directions at once. Svip and I huddled against the wall, as the beast nearest to us bucked to free itself from the chains lashing it to the scaffold.

"Look out!" I yelled to Svip, as one of the chain links wrenched apart. Trumpeting rage and pain, the _mûmak_ charged past us, south along the perimeter of the wall. Blood poured from its shoulders where the chains had dug into armour and flesh. The four others, perhaps following the lead of the dominant creature among them, turned east toward the River. Behind them they dragged their stricken comrade and the massive bulk of overturned scaffold and wolfshead battering ram. Orcs and trolls alike, fleeing down the corpse-choked road, wailed and scattered as the _mûmakil_ ploughed through their ranks.

"I don't believe it," I whispered, my voice inaudible even to me in the chaos about us. "I cannot believe it."

Of those who had come so close to felling the White City's Gate, not one remained that was not either fallen or in flight.

But, I told myself, the troops that had assaulted the Gate were far from the only threat we had to face.

I turned my gaze to the south, seeking to gain some concept of the enemy's distribution between the Road and Mount Mindolluin.

What I saw drove from my mind all thoughts of battle and the enemy.

In the south, where the Great River wound its course around Mindolluin's feet, the darkness was broken. Sunlight and a glimpse of blue sky pierced the pitiless black that had shrouded us for so long. The River gleamed like a road paved with mithril, and through the rent in the cloud, there came another marvel: wind, a wild and laughing wind that rolled in from the distant sea. Like a charge of unseen horsemen in the air, the wind rushed upon us, the first breeze to stir over Gondor since the dark fell upon us full six days before.

"Look, Svip!" I yelled out to my comrade, feeling near to singing or weeping in my delight. "Svip, will you look!"

I heard a wondering gasp – sounding bizarrely human coming from the mouth of a horse – as Svip turned to follow my gaze.

I felt the wind dance across my face, and I saw it ruffle Svip's mane. And of a sudden, now that my senses were not all honed to immediate combat, I noticed something else.

The numbness and cold had gained pace upon me, far more swiftly than I cared to admit. While all my being was centred on my challenge to the Ringwraith, I had been able to hurl this lesser peril from my mind. But now it intruded on my senses once more, whispering of cold and emptiness that seemed to creep on me from the very depths of my bones.

On an impulse I yanked my leathern gauntlet from my left hand, and held out my hand to try if the breath of the wind would have any impact upon it.

It did not. I yet felt the wind on my face, but my hand felt nothing. Neither the wind, nor its own trembling, that I saw in my fingers when I held my hand out before me.

I pulled on the gauntlet again. Experimentally I reached over and squeezed my left shoulder, then tried again at various points down my arm.

I swore under my breath. I had some sensation still, thus far, down to just above the elbow. But not only was my lower arm dead to all feeling, my right hand with which I'd conducted the experiment had felt nothing at all.

It was an eerie experience, to feel the grasp of my fingers about my shoulder, but for those fingers themselves to be as void of sensation as though they did not exist.

_It doesn't matter_, I repeated to myself. I had, I argued, been able to function perfectly well at the Causeway Forts, despite not being able to feel any of my limbs. I would just have to do so again.

Of course, I told myself ruefully, my brother would have a sharp answer for me if he heard that statement. And, if I were honest with myself, he would be entirely right.

Much though I wished to believe that this disability meant nothing to me, I had not forgotten the nightmare ride from the Forts to the Harlond, with unconsciousness welling up to claim me and my body as dead to feeling as though I were truly a ghost.

Svip turned his head, struggling to get a good look at me over his shoulder. He might not have been able to see all that I was doing, but he knew well enough what my actions meant.

"Are you all right?" he demanded.

"I'm fine," I said. I took a swig from my canteen, and frowned over the plain.

The rip in the clouds was spreading, daylight advancing north toward us in the entourage of the wind. Most of the field was yet in shadow, but I could see well enough the press of the foe in many places south along the City wall. The rout of their comrades at the Gate had not halted them. Their siege engines rolled uncomfortably near the wall, as our archers, spread far too thinly, struggled to keep pace against too many targets at once. From the Harlond gate, I saw advancing upon us long columns of cavalry and footsoldiers, the black and scarlet Serpent Banner of Harad fluttering at their head.

I glanced over my shoulder, seeking some concept of what might be passing there. North of the Road, the curve of the wall frustrated my efforts at discerning the battle's course. Fighting that I could not see, carried clearly to my ears. I heard the clash of arms, the screams of _mûmakil_ and the cries of horses and Men. As I listened, I thought that I heard as well the strains of wild, warlike song, intertwined with the din of combat.

_The Rohirrim_, I thought. I knew of no other people likely to break into song in the very midst of battle.

The Men of Harad must have become aware of the Rohirrim's presence to the north of the Road, for as I gazed over the field lying mottled in sunlight and shadow, I saw their cavalry and the Serpent Banner turn north, breaking off from their infantry who still marched toward our wall.

Svip's attention, meanwhile, had remained firmly focused upon the state of my health. "You should get back to the River," he advised me.

"I know I should," I sighed. "And I know there are a good many thousands of the enemy between us and the shore."

"Well, but you've got to get there," my friend snapped. "What are you going to do about it?"

I had to chuckle at his nagging tone of voice. I restrained myself from joking that Svip would make somebody a fine wife someday, for it would be far too much bother to explain the joke to him.

"Patience, Svip," I counselled, suddenly feeling cheerful again. "We will get there. But we'll need to bring some of our Men along with us."

While Svip and I debated my health, my countrymen behind the Gate were not sitting idle.

Captain Cirion shouted, "Men on the Gate, cease fire!" And I heard my father's yell of command, "Open the Gate!"

We turned, holding our ground by the sally port while the Great Gate of Minas Tirith swung ponderously open beside us.

Before even the Gate was fully opened, a rider surged forth between the doors of iron. As they galloped past us, Mithrandir and Shadowfax seemed living embodiments of the light that was chasing the darkness from Anduin's shores. The Wizard held one arm outstretched, and white fire seemed to spring from his upraised hand.

Close behind Wizard and Meara sprang forth the patchwork collection of horsemen that made up the Cavalry of Gondor. I saw the blue-and-silver-clad Knights of Dol Amroth, on their grey steeds, a handful of green-clad horsemen riding beneath the banner of Pinnath Gelin, and a scattering of riders of different liveries and banners, the banners of Lossarnach and Anfalas among them.

No riders of Minas Tirith itself did I see in that first charge against our fleeing enemy. But as the Gate swung open to its furthest extent, my father's household cavalry rode forth at a more measured pace, the Steward himself at their head.

To his left rode his standard bearer, the banner of the White Tree proudly held aloft. At the Steward's right rode Húrin of the Keys, and peeking around him with one arm clutching to Húrin's waist, I saw Master Peregrin Took.

Relief rushed my heart at seeing them safe and sound. But my father did not allow time for any merry meetings.

He rode up to us, while the others held back, awaiting his command. As my father's steed drew near, the animal shied and snorted in alarm at Svip's unfamiliar scent.

Mouth narrowing in impatience, the Steward tightened the rein. Svip took a step backward, and the other horse made no further protest, though I thought that it still eyed the shape-changer with a high degree of wariness.

"Boromir," my father greeted me briskly, as though his despair in the night we had just passed had never been. "Will you and the Lord Svip ride forth with us?"

The thought came to me that if we did, we were like to send all the other horses falling over each other in panic. There were, besides, many fighting Men yet upon Minas Tirith's walls, who could play their role in this day's fighting despite the lack of horses to bear them to the field. And I thought that I saw as well a way of answering my present difficulty – or, at the least, of inducing Svip to cease nagging me.

"If it pleases you, My Lord," I said, "I will muster such infantry as may be sent forth without unduly weakening the defence of the City. We will clear the foe from under the southern stretches of our wall, and re-take the Harlond, that they may not use it as a haven against us."

My father considered for a moment, then nodded. "Very well," he said. "I will join you at the Harlond when the field is ours."

With no further delay, he turned to his waiting Men. He drew his sword and shouted, "Forward! For Gondor!"

The cavalry thundered past us, warhorses leaping over the corpses of the foe. A few of the horses seemed to waver in their pace as they passed too near to Svip, and my friend took another few steps away from the column.

Too late I realised that I might have made another attempt to dissuade my father from taking Pippin into battle with him. He might have been more amenable to my request, now that he seemed no longer gripped by his deathly despair. Now I had lost that chance, and I must hold to the hope that Húrin of the Keys would bring both the Hobbit and himself through this day in safety.

I nearly groaned at the memory of Pippin's pallid face poking around from behind Lord Húrin's back, and the gleaming sword of the Barrow-downs that my small friend brandished unsheathed in his hand.

Perhaps, I told myself bitterly, that ancient sword held some power to keep Pippin safe. I could only hope that it would guard him better than I had done.

The last of my father's cavalry swept past us, and I said to my trusty steed, "Come on, Svip. Let us go back inside."

Obediently Svip trotted into the Court of the Gate. Men hastened to heave the massive Gate shut behind us. I leapt down from Svip's back, striving once more to remain undisturbed by the sensation that my feet had not hit the ground – or, indeed, that my feet did not exist.

Sunlight had reached the buildings and walls of the White City. In the clear morning light, fingers of black smoke stretched upward, thickest and most numerous to northwest in the First Circle. The wind, that had seemed so welcome to me moments before, seemed now another enemy. If that wind did not lessen, it might send the fires spreading to the Second Circle, performing the task that Sauron's legions had not yet managed to accomplish.

I bellowed at the top of my lungs, "Orderlies! To me!"

The nearest orderlies ran to my side and saluted. Manfully they sought to keep their eyes on me, and not to turn and stare as Svip, beside me, changed back from horse form into his small green self.

I commanded, "Relay my order to all infantry commanders upon the inner walls. Three of every four Men now guarding the Third through Sixth walls are to be sent here to me. Let them assemble by companies, with all practicable speed. We are going to re-take the Pelennor." As the orderlies saluted again, I singled out one of them and continued to him, "Get you to the commanders on the Second wall. Have them send one third of their Men to reinforce the First wall, at any point where the defence may be over-taxed. Another third is to repair to the First Level, seek out any fires that burn here and do what they may to aid in the fire-fighters' efforts."

The young Men raced about their tasks, and I turned to see Svip looking up at me with bright-eyed eagerness. I swore internally at the thought that he must expect me to ride him into battle.

His eager gaze was far removed from the pallid apprehension I had seen on the face of Pippin, but the dread I felt for the two of them was the same.

_They should not be here_, I thought. It was friendship, not any ties of blood or nation, that propelled Pippin and Svip into battle this day. And was it not my duty as their friend to keep them safe, to prevent their generous hearts from hurling them again into the teeth of death?

I had signally failed to accomplish that for Pippin. Perhaps I still had a chance of it, with Svip.

"Svip," I began, "you don't have to go out there again. It will be a long and difficult day, and you have not trained to bear an armed warrior through hours of combat. You've done already far more than should ever have been asked of you. I will fight with a lighter heart if I do not need to fear for you –"

Svip had clenched his fists as I spoke, and was glaring at me in outrage. "You can't be thinking of taking another horse out there!" he snapped. "I won't let you!"

"The other horses have been years in training for battle. They are used to enduring the strain of a warrior's weight for hours on end, you are not –"

"Can the other horses understand everything you say to them?" Svip shot back. "Do the other horses know they need to get you back to the River, or you'll die? You're the one who needs protecting, not me! _I'm_ not the one who can't feel his hands because he's been too long away from the River!"

I stared at him, torn between groaning and laughter. "Svip," I tried again, "you've been too long away from the River, too; you shouldn't try to keep up the shape-changing for long. It's just too hard on you –"

"If I've been too long away from the River," he argued, "it's all the more reason why I have to go with you. You can't be thinking of having me go to the River in this shape; I'd scare any other horse too badly if you had me ride on one. There's no other way. I've got to go as a horse, and I'm going with you, that's all there is to it."

"My Lord Boromir!"

The voice that called out was Captain Cirion's, from atop the Gate. As I looked up, he called again, "Sir, if you have the time to spare, I think that you should see this." An unaccustomed quaver sounded in the Captain's voice, telling that the sight he looked upon was more remarkable to him than the ordinary courses of battle.

"I am on my way," I shouted. I sped along the street toward the stairs, Svip scrambling to keep pace at my side.

We passed two townsmen carrying a wounded comrade upon a stretcher between them, treading the long path to the Houses of Healing far above us. The injured Man's clothing and one half of his face were blackened by fire. As I started at a run up the stairs, I offered up a brief mental prayer for the wind to cease before it spread the fires beyond our Second wall.

My diminutive friend was far from giving up on our argument. Bounding along at my heel, he shouted, "I'm going with you, aren't I? You won't try to go into battle without me?"

I stopped halfway up the steps and turned back to glower at him. Svip pulled himself to a halt just short of running into my legs, but he stared bravely up at me, my glower seeming to have no effect on him whatever.

The thought, of a sudden, came to me that I had been wrong the day before, when I had thought ill of Frodo for not stopping Pippin and Merry from going into danger with him. If the two young Hobbits were but half as persistent as Svip, there had likely been no way upon Middle Earth that Frodo could have eluded them.

"Svip," I said grimly, "I need you to take time before speaking now, and answer me in honesty. If I do ride you into battle, will you be able to withstand a day or more of combat? Is your back strong enough to carry me all those hours, without peril to you? Can you swear to me by our friendship that we will not be putting both of us at greater risk if I do as you desire?"

For some moments Svip held my gaze. Then he answered simply, "Yes. I swear it."

I sighed and wondered if I would be more true to our friendship to have him bound hand and foot and leave him in the City under guard. But like as not, he would just change shape and break his bonds, or if I had him chained, he'd find some way of talking his guards into setting him free.

"Very well," I said. "We will go into battle together."

As a broad grin spread across my comrade's face, there came a sudden, dreadful cry, piercing the noise of battle. I thought that it might have come from the same beast of the air that had borne the Nazgûl from amongst us. But if so, its cry was altered indeed, sounding now in desperation and anguish.

Another voice sounded forth before the first cry had faded. Words that I could not grasp were screamed out in venom-filled hatred. Now I was certain that the first screech had come from the Ringwraith's hellish steed, for there was no doubting that the second voice was that of the Black Captain himself.

I turned and again ran up the stairs.

As I reached the wall, a crash rent the air as of thunder nigh upon us. Svip and I were running to the parapet, when a new scream succeeded that crash.

I have not heard its like before or since, and glad I am of that. In malice and fear and despair, stabbing like a spear of ice to the depths of my soul, it wailed on for what seemed a moment stretched into eternity.

At last the wailing faded, swallowed in the voice of the wind. It was another moment before I could move or think, or hear the noise of battle over the echoes of the thin, bodiless scream that still echoed in my mind.

"Boromir?" Svip called sharply from beside me, his voice startling me into reality. "Boromir!"

I blinked and smiled faintly down on him. Still feeling more than half in some nightmare, I walked to the parapet, where Captain Cirion stood eyeing me as though he feared I might vanish in the wake of that scream.

Svip scurried along to hop onto his firing platform. Gripping the embrasure and wishing that my hands would feel any hint of the stone wall in their grasp, I stared at the battlefield before us.

Again I had to blink, and to sternly command my brain to take in what my eyes relayed.

The darkness that had held us for so long was at last truly vanished. Pure blue sky shone above fields that seemed impossibly green and bright after near a week of shadow. New clouds advanced on us from the south, but they were honest rain clouds, shafts of sunlight gleaming to either side of a grey curtain of rain.

Forcibly I compelled myself to heed the events passing upon the field.

Scarce a mile from us upon the City Road, I saw my father's cavalry, the White Tree banner snapping in the swelling breeze. My father's horsemen were not engaged in combat, but had pulled to a halt with their line a few paces from a cluster of fallen bodies, Men and horses that lay scattered unmoving across the Road.

I saw a few dismounted Men standing amid the fallen. The distance was too great for me to discern the identity of most, but I thought that I could make out upon a few of them the blue and silver of Dol Amroth, and on one, the glowing white robe of Mithrandir.

Dread gripped me as I speculated who might lie among the fallen, that Mithrandir, my uncle's knights, and the horsemen of Minas Tirith should stop to attend them. I forced myself to turn my gaze from that tableau, to seek what other sights the morning's sun would reveal.

In the minutes since last I had gazed upon the field, destruction, it seemed, had overtaken our foemen's cavalry of Harad. I could see no sign of their black and crimson banner. Instead I saw that which sent a jolt of elation through my foreboding thoughts. The banner of Rohan, its white horse blazoned upon a field of green, gleamed at the forefront of a charge of horsemen, cleaving their way south toward the Harlond through a tangled rout of horses and Men.

South against the City wall, the enemy's siege engines yet pressed close, though our archers and catapults still fired in numbers sufficient to hold them from our battlements.

I turned to scan the land north along the wall. There, another detachment of siege engines and _mûmakil_ was encircled by a great mass of horsemen, among them some of Dol Amroth's knights, and others that I supposed to be more of the Riders of Rohan. Spears and arrows rained mercilessly upon the _mûmakil_ and their handlers, for the moment holding them more or less at bay. But wherever one of the _mûmakil_ charged at the riders, or a horseman ventured too close to the gigantic beasts, the horses scattered in panic, and Men and steeds were trampled under the monsters' feet.

We might, I told myself, have greater fortune sending infantry against the _mûmakil_, for at least then the horses' terror would not be another foe arrayed against us. Few Men, perhaps, would advance cheerfully against those monstrosities, but I had more faith in Men's strength to face such horrors than in that of any horse – except, needless to say, for Svip.

Glancing down to the courtyard, I saw that perhaps a hundred of our Men had gathered thus far, with another company approaching, the street vanishing in a river of helmets and spears.

_Wait_, I ordered myself. _They have not had time yet to assemble, they will be here soon, you must simply wait_.

There was nothing else to be done, but yet I longed to go racing onto the field with what few Men had now assembled, rather than wait an instant longer before going to our comrades' aid.

Fighting back my impatience, I turned to Captain Cirion. "What did you see?" I asked him. "Did you see what transpired when we heard those screams?"

"Aye, My Lord," he said with a grimace, "though I cannot say I know what it is that I saw." For a moment the Ranger frowned in thought. Then slowly he continued, "The Riders of Rohan charged against the horsemen of the Haradrim, and they met upon the Road. The Riders did great slaughter, and Harad's vanguard and their banner were thrown down. Then –"

He paused and shook his head, then went on once more. "Then the sky went black above the fighting, and a great cloud seemed to descend upon them. And the cloud became that – that thing that bore the Black Captain from the Gate, with the Captain still upon its back. The foremost of the Riders of Rohan were stricken to earth, and then I saw one of them, unhorsed, stand alone facing the Black Captain and the beast. What followed I do not know that I clearly saw, for each time the Black Captain moved it was as though a cloud moved before my sight. But I think that I saw the lone Rider strike down the beast, cleaving its neck in twain. And the Captain rose up from the wreck of his mount … and then I saw the Rider swing his sword at the darkness. And then there came that sound. And the darkness was gone."

"What became of the Rider?" I asked eagerly. "What followed then?"

Cirion cast me a quizzical look. "I cannot rightly say what followed then, My Lord. I was then staring at you, for you looked as though you would be struck down by that sound. Are you well, sir?"

I shrugged. "I am well enough," I said.

He nodded doubtfully. "Aye, My Lord. When next I looked on the field, more Riders of Rohan were approaching the Road from the north. They halted a few moments where the others had been stricken down, then the leaders of their column remounted and they drove south against the footmen of the Haradrim. And a moment later the horsemen of the Lord your father, who had been engaged against the remnants of the detachment that attacked the Gate, reached the place where the Rider had hewed down the darkness. That is all, My Lord."

"Look!" Svip piped up. "Some of them are coming back." As Cirion and I both turned to see, he went on, "It's some of your uncle's knights, and –"

"And Mithrandir," I whispered. The horsemen, five in number, approached at a gentle canter, taking time to detour around the corpses in their path rather than climbing over them.

As I frowned, striving to see them more clearly, I thought that I glimpsed some small, darker shape set before Mithrandir upon Shadowfax's back. At the very moment that I saw that, Captain Cirion murmured, "One of the knights, My Lord. He bears a wounded Man before him."

I glanced from the Wizard to the knight riding beside him, and saw that indeed his horse was double-burdened as well, the foremost figure slumped back against the knight in unconsciousness or death.

If I remained on the wall speculating upon whom these Men might be, I thought it would drive me to madness. I shouted to the guards at the Gate, "Ho there, below! Open one door of the Gate!" Turning to Svip, I said, "Come on. We will ride out to meet them."

Once again Svip and I raced down the stairs. My friend the water creature must have been as anxious as I to learn the riders' identity, for the instant his feet hit the street's cobbles, he surged upward into his horse form. A company of Morthond's archers approaching along the street halted in astonishment, their commander's horse rearing and neighing its complaints as I pulled myself up to Svip's back.

The commander was swift to bring his steed under control. Svip and I turned to the Men of Morthond to apologise, and I recognised their officer as Lord Duinhir of Morthond himself.

"My apologies, My Lord," I called. "Horses seem to find Svip a little unnerving."

"So I see, My Lord," he answered dryly. "Have you commands for us, Lord Boromir?"

"Remain in the Court of the Gate until the muster is complete. I will return post-haste. We march south to clear the enemy from against our wall."

"Good," said Lord Duinhir, with a grin. "We were starting to get bored."

I tossed Duinhir a salute and said to my comrade, "All right, Svip, let us go."

As we passed beneath the Gate and Svip commenced hurrying around and over the mounds of Orc and troll corpses, I struggled again to keep my mind free from its useless speculations. When we were a quarter-mile perhaps from the Gate, and the five horsemen were near enough to us that their identities would soon be seen, the rain from the south reached the City Road. It hit us in a great gust of wind, seeming to smell of the ocean dashing its waves against the Belfalas shore.

Grey mist swirled about us, blown from the bosom of Anduin. Dark though were my thoughts, I could not help but smile as the cold raindrops hit my upturned face.

I might have little or no feeling left to me in my limbs, but my face could still feel the rain.

A thought hit me with the rain: _If this rain keeps up, it may quench the fires in the City_.

_Valar, _I prayed, _let not the rain stop until all the fires are dead!_

Svip hesitated by the huge mass of a fallen troll, looking about for the best route of picking his way around it. "Let us wait here, Svip," I told him. "They are almost upon us."

The first of the knights rode out of the mist, around the splayed mountain-troll. The knight kept his head lowered against the rain, and his cloak pulled up to shelter, as much as possible, the limp figure leaning against him.

The horse snorted nervously as its rider drew in rein a few feet from us. Svip took his obligatory few steps back, to give the other horse a chance to calm itself.

I called, "Hail, My Lord Knight. Who is it that you bear?"

And then I stared in astonishment. I heard a startled gasp that I suppose I must have made myself, for Svip turned his head slightly to me and whispered, "Who is it?"

The unconscious warrior whom the knight supported might have been a young Man of Rohan, for a slender form and long golden hair are fairly usual attributes among the youths of that nation. But I recognised the pallid face framed by that bright cascade of gold.

It was the face of the Lady Éowyn Daughter of Éomund, cousin to my late wife and adoptive daughter to Rohan's King.

I would have thought that my eyes and the rain played mad tricks upon me, but the knight called back wearily, "Hail, My Lord Boromir. I bear the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, wounded in combat. The Lord your father gave orders that she be carried to the Houses of Healing with all possible haste."

"Of course," I said, swallowing my amazement. "Ride on, Sir Knight. You may use my authority as well as my father's, to secure any aid you may require in the City. Say from me to the Chief Healer that the lady is to be given his immediate attention."

"Yes, My Lord," the knight said. He shifted to pull his cloak tighter about the unconscious woman, and rode on. As they passed us, I was yet staring at her pale, rain-drenched face, asking myself again if I were dreaming or mad.

"Who is she?" Svip whispered to me.

"My wife's cousin," I answered blankly. Recalling Svip's unfamiliarity with the family structures of Men, I blinked and tore my eyes from the knight's departing back. "My wife's father's sister's daughter," I endeavoured to explain, though I am sure that explanation likely muddied the waters further.

We had no more occasion then to discuss the complexities of family, for the next horseman was approaching, his white robes gleaming like a beacon through the mist.

"Hail, Lord Boromir," came the voice of Mithrandir. I thought that his voice held more grief and weariness than I could remember ever hearing from him. But before I could ask what grieved him, another familiar voice cried out gladly, "Boromir!"

They rode to us from the curtain of rain. And I have no shame in admitting that a tear or two sprang to join the rain as it coursed down my face.

Pippin rode before Mithrandir against Shadowfax's neck, but not Pippin alone. The Wizard's arm encircled two drenched Hobbits, Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck.

Merry looked as pale as had the Lady Éowyn, and only barely more conscious than she. His head was slumped against Pippin's shoulder, and he blinked like an owl in sunlight as Pippin shook him gently and whispered, "See, Merry, see! I told you so."

Merry's eyes widened as they gradually fixed on me. Mithrandir spoke quietly, "It is all right to come closer, Master Svip. Shadowfax will have no fear of you."

Svip turned his head in question, and I nodded and stroked his mane. "It will be all right, Svip," I repeated.

He took a few gingerly steps toward the Meara, who held his ground and eyed Svip in what seemed a gaze of curiosity. The three other knights of Dol Amroth rode past us following their comrade and the lady, each Man nodding or bowing to me as he passed.

Slowly Merry reached out his hand to me. I closed my hand about his, wishing with all my heart that I could feel it.

A faint smile touched Merry's face as he blinked at me through the rain.

"Boromir," he murmured. "Pippin told me … he said that … but I didn't … I couldn't …"

Merry looked down at our hands, then up again to my face. He whispered then, "I'm glad."

"As am I, Merry," I said, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. As carefully as I could, I extracted my hand from his, fearful that in my hand's lack of feeling, I would grip the Hobbit's hand more tightly than I intended.

Merry's head fell back against Pippin's shoulder. As Pippin tightened his arms about his cousin, I could not stop myself from exclaiming, "You look terrible, Merry, are you wounded?"

"Not me," he breathed, in a voice that began to wander into tones of dreaming or delirium. "But Éowyn … Éowyn …"

"The lady and Merry killed the Black Rider!" Pippin put in excitedly.

Merry shook his head slowly. "I didn't kill him," he insisted. "Éowyn did."

"Well, you wounded him, anyway," said Pippin. "You told me you did."

These intelligences would have been amazing enough, even without Merry's participation in the Ringwraith's slaying. Several hundred questions seemed falling over themselves into my mind.

"How came the Lady Éowyn here?" I asked, turning to Mithrandir. "I cannot think that Théoden King would give her permission to ride with the Éored into battle –"

The Wizard opened his mouth to reply, but Merry burst out with a sudden surge of strength, "She did not wait for permission! She rode with the army, disguised. She let me ride with her when the King would have left me behind. The King never knew she was here, even – even at the end …"

Merry's voice faltered and sank to silence. Mithrandir spoke, his quiet tones heavy with grief, "Théoden King has been slain."

I stared. The empty cold that I felt in my limbs seemed to stab at my heart.

"That is ill news indeed," I managed to speak at last. "How did he die?"

"He did great deeds of valour and threw down the King of the Haradrim," the Wizard answered. "But he fell himself to the Nazgûl's assault. I was too late to save him – by a few moments too late."

I found myself cast in the unexpected role of attempting to comfort the Wizard. Awkwardly I said, "If it was the Lord Théoden's fate to fall on this day, Mithrandir, not even you could have prevented it."

Grimly, he nodded.

I sought about for some other words of comfort, but found none. "What arrangements have been made for the King's body?" I inquired.

"Several of his household follow us, bearing him to the City. The Lord Denethor ordered that the body of Théoden King be laid in state in the House of the Stewards." Seeming to pull himself out from bitter reflections, Mithrandir glanced down at his young Hobbit charges. The ghost of a smile touched his face as he said, "And we should not dally much longer in talk, if we are to tend the hurts of the King's defender who has faced down the Nazgûl and yet lives."

Meriadoc gave a weak little snort of a laugh. "Faced him down?" he murmured. "I couldn't even look at him."

"No more could Rohan's greatest warriors have looked upon him. But your love for your Lord gave you the courage that size and strength of arms could not." The Wizard gently smiled at Merry and went on, "You have well repaid my trust. If Elrond had not yielded to me, you would not have set out from Rivendell, and then far more grievous would the evils of this day have been."

Mithrandir looked up from our small comrades-in-arms. His voice turning business-like once more, he said, "I will get Master Meriadoc to the Houses of Healing, and do what I may to aid him and the Lady Éowyn. Lord Boromir, I ask that you keep a sharp lookout for the lady's brother – he who is now Éomer King. He saw her fallen body beside that of their uncle, and he was at the foe again in an ecstasy of grief before any had time to tell him that his sister was not slain. I much fear that young idiot may get himself killed in the transports of his despair. The Rohirrim should not have to bear the loss of two kings in one day."

I could not help but smile at that, reflecting that Mithrandir was probably right in his summation of Éomer's peril. The Men of Rohan are people of extremes. It would be just like Cousin Éomer to throw down his life in a sheer excess of misery.

"I will look out for him," I promised. "I will tell him that his sister lives, at the first opportunity."

I glanced down to the Hobbits, and met the worried gaze of Pippin. Merry's attention had drifted from us. His head rested on Pippin's shoulder, and his eyes appeared focused on some distant scene that none of the rest of us could see.

"Let us make haste for the City," I said. "We are delaying too long."

We set out side by side, Shadowfax holding his gait to an easy trot to avoid unduly jostling Merry, and Svip regulating his pace by that of the Meara. Several times I saw Svip and Shadowfax glance at each other, and I had to smile at my speculations of what both Meara and shape-shifter might think of the other. But darker questions took precedence over such musings.

Merry was all but unconscious. His eyelids would flutter open when Pippin shook him or spoke his name, only to droop shut again almost at once.

Pippin asked, his voice going high with fear, "What is the matter with him, Gandalf?"

"He is falling under the Nazgûls' shadow," the Wizard answered. "As have so many others … the Lady Éowyn among them."

"And Faramir," the Hobbit added, speaking for my own thoughts as he glanced up at me in apprehension and sympathy. "But the lady and Merry killed the Black Rider. Shouldn't that make the shadow go away from them?"

"I wish that were so, Master Peregrin," Mithrandir said gravely. "Alas, the destruction of one of their company – even though he be their chief – is not enough to banish that darkness."

"Is there aught that you can do for them, Mithrandir?" I asked, looking from Merry's ashen visage to Pippin's, and trying to silence the voice of despair in my mind telling me that Faramir and Merry and all the rest of them were lost to us.

The Wizard's sorrowful reply did not bring much comfort. "I will do everything that I can," he said. "I would counsel you not to despair, my friends. But, I fear, neither can I give you much of hope."

"Well, if anyone can help them, you can," Pippin said stoutly. "Isn't that right, Boromir?"

"Yes," I agreed, forcing a smile for our stalwart young comrade. "Yes, that is right."

We reached the City without event. Svip and I halted in the Court of the Gate, while Mithrandir and his charges rode onward to the Houses of Healing – Pippin leaving me with the determined parting injunction, "They will be all right, Boromir, you'll see."

Not for the first time, I found myself wishing that I could see the world through the eyes of a Hobbit.

Dismounting from Svip where we had paused just within the Gate, I commented to him, "We must be almost all assembled. I'll speak with the commanders; we should be setting out soon after that." Meeting the gaze of my horse-shaped friend, I made one last desultory attempt at persuading him. "You still do not have to go out there, Svip, if you don't feel that –"

"I'm going," declared the horse, in decidedly un-amused tones.

"I'm sorry," I sighed. "All right. You're going."

Svip went on, with more of his usual eagerness, "Is there anything I can do while we're waiting?"

I considered a moment, then said, "Yes. If you don't mind, you can go refill our canteens. Have a good long drink yourself before we set out. I can guarantee you're going to need it."

My friend paused; thinking, I have no doubt, of the room in the Tower of the Gate that held our barrel of River water and the heads of our fallen comrades. For a moment I regretted asking it of him. But, I told myself, if he planned to face the carnage of a battlefield, he had best be able to endure worse than mere proximity to our warrior's severed heads.

Svip nodded decisively. An instant later he had shrunk back to his own small form. As I unfastened my canteen and held it out to him, I saw that he was eyeing my hand, on the watch for its telltale trembling. Belligerently he voiced his usual demand: "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Svip," I gave my usual reply.

This time, that reply was not enough for him. "If I'm going to carry you into battle," he argued, "I'll need to know when you've got too weak and I have to get you to safety –"

I cut in, "You will know it when I fall off your back. There is no question of getting me to safety. I will reach the River at the head of our troops, or I will die."

Svip glowered darkly and grabbed my canteen from my hand. As he stomped away, I thought I heard him mutter, "Men!"

_Boromir_, I chided myself, _there was no need at all for that remark_. I nearly called out to Svip in apology. But watching him stalk off, with his anger clear to be seen in every move, I argued that it would be best to wait 'till both of us were in better humour.

Sighing, I took off my helm and raked a hand through my hair. Neither of those actions did I feel.

Yet again, it struck me how very like were my arguments with Svip, to those in which I had so often engaged with my brother. And with that thought, came the inescapable realisation that Faramir and I might never share such an argument again.

There was another point in which this argument matched my many arguments with Faramir. Svip was entirely in the right.

I glanced to the sky, and at the raindrops that I saw but could no longer feel.

Once more I donned my helmet, then I turned and strode into the courtyard. As I called out for the commanders of our assembled troops to report, I thought, _I really do have to apologise to Svip_.

In that moment, I asked myself if I were mad to even contemplate leading our Men into battle.

I would have no respect for a commander who cared so little for his Men's fate that he rode to combat at their head while he was feverish or drunk. How was it different what I was doing, to think that I could lead them without disaster when I felt nothing but vague, disembodied cold?

I met the gaze of our commanders, and I prayed for the steadiness to maintain the fiction that I was yet myself.

"Gentlemen," I addressed them, "it is time for us to play our role in our country's battle. Our task is to clear the foe from against our wall, from the Gate south to Mindolluin. We then are to march east and re-take the Harlond." As smiles of pride and anticipation touched the commanders' face, I continued. "Many of you I know. Some I do not. Give me your names, your fiefdoms, and the numbers you have now under your command."

I listened to the muster-roll of our troops, and I fought to still the whispers of fear in my thoughts.

Among those assembled were some two hundred Men of our regular forces, their ranks a combination of City Guards, soldiers from the Rammas forts, and troops from the Anórien marches. Around a hundred, in addition, were there of our Ithilien Rangers, Faramir's Men commanded in his absence by Lieutenant Anborn.

The largest single force present was that of Morthond, near four hundreds of them under the command of Lord Duinhir and his sons.

Upon all of these, I knew we could rely. There would be more question of the others: not of their courage, for of that I had no doubt, but of the ease and speed with which they might be unified into one larger fighting force. The contrast was plain to see between the troops with actual training, and those militias pulled together from out of the fields and hills and fishing fleets of the kingdom.

Three hundreds were there of the Men of Ringló Vale, commanded by Dervorin Son of Lord Kirilhir. The Men of Ringló, I knew, had long years' experience fighting beside Dol Amroth's troops against the pirates who sought to establish footholds in the Haven of Cobas and along the coast. Dervorin himself was scarce out of the schoolroom, and he had a reputation for hot-headedness, to boot. But there was hope that he and his Men would perform well, provided that Dervorin could compel himself not to go running about, attempting to perform individual deeds of heroism.

Of the Men of Pinnath Gelin, two hundreds and fifty were mustered in the Courtyard, and of Lossarnach, one hundred and fifty. Both of these lands, I knew, boasted warriors of experience and skill. But I was not best pleased to find both groups commanded by secondary lords of their people, their own Lords Forlong and Hirluin and their few mounted warriors having ridden forth among my father's cavalry.

These Men would fight better, I thought, with their own Lords at their head. But yet, I told myself, they should acquit themselves well. I would do better to cease my worrying upon the matter.

Nigh two hundreds were there of the Men of Anfalas, under the command of Golasgil their Lord. They were Men doughty and hardy, but the most of them were hunters and herdsmen, not soldiers. The majority were equipped with weaponry that I knew to have come from the City's own stockpiles, and I could only hope that they had at least some experience in those weapons' use. In like case were the hundred or so fishermen of the Ethir, who had rallied to Minas Tirith's aid without even any lord to lead them forth. They, too, had been armed largely with weapons from the City's armouries, although a few retained their fishing spears in addition to the swords and axes they'd received since their arrival in the White City.

The smallest force was that of Lamedon, fifty or so Hillmen armed with their own distinctive bone-hilted daggers and with weapons from the City armouries. Like the fisherfolk of Ethir, they had come forth with no captain at their head. I smiled to see their grim-faced determination and their defiant stances. I thought that they were like to fight as well as any; if for no other reason, then to prove that Lamedon's Men could hold their own beside the veteran warriors of Morthond and of Minas Tirith.

Our plans were swiftly made. I divided our forces in two: the troops of Morthond, Lamedon, Lossarnach and Pinnath Gelin to fight under the command of Lord Duinhir of Morthond, and our regular troops, the Ithilien Rangers, and the Men of Ringló, Ethir and Anfalas to fight under mine. We would move south, Duinhir's force encountering first each enemy column that yet attempted to breach our wall. My troops would then drive them east, finishing them off while Duinhir's Men regrouped from each assault.

Svip returned as we neared the end of our council, and stood silently beside me, my canteen clutched to his chest. His gaze was still angry as I glanced down to meet it, and I promised myself that I would give him a lengthy apology as soon as we were out of the hearing of others.

And there was more that I needed to do, besides merely apologising.

As the commanders bowed and began to return to their troops, I called Lieutenant Anborn of the Rangers to me.

"Anborn," I said quietly, "I have a particular command for you, one of vital importance. You know of the … limitations placed upon me by the manner of my return from the dead?"

Anborn grimaced slightly, but he kept his voice undismayed. "I have heard something of it, My Lord."

"I cannot remain long away from the Anduin, without ill effects. Thus far, I believe I am able to function fully," this I said with a glance down at Svip, "but that may not remain the case throughout the battle ahead. It is possible, even probable that I may begin to lose consciousness. You have a horse available to you?" I asked the Ranger.

"I have, My Lord."

"I ask that you remain near me, and join Svip in the task of keeping an eye on me. If it becomes clear that I am no longer fit to command, you are to relieve me and take command of our force yourself."

I smiled at the unhappy look that spread over Anborn's face. "I know it may sound a daunting mission to convince me that I must relinquish command. But I promise you, in such a case I will be too weakened by far for me to contest your decision."

"Very well, My Lord," the Lieutenant said, still looking far from delighted at the responsibility that I had handed him. He hesitated, then he asked, "Have you any word, My Lord, of how Lord Faramir does today?"

I wished that I could have better news for him. "There was no change, the last I heard," I answered. "He was still unconscious, and still speaking in his sleep."

Anborn nodded. "My Lord …" he began awkwardly, then he continued in a rush. "I am more gladdened than I can tell you, by your safe return. The news of your loss was more bitter to Lord Faramir than any wound. I hope – My Lord, I pray that I may live to see the day when Denethor's Sons again ride forth together against the foes of Gondor."

"I thank you, Anborn," I told him, clasping his shoulder. "It is my prayer as well."

The troops under Duinhir of Morthond moved out first through the Great Gate. As we followed, I at last essayed to make my apologies to Svip, back in his horse form and maintaining an angry silence beneath me.

"I am sorry, Svip," I said. "You were right, you know."

He kept silent some moments more before answering. "Of course I was right."

"If it makes any difference, it is true what I said to Anborn. I do believe, truly, that I can still function, for now. I cannot feel anything, but I do not think that my mind is yet affected. I can yet see and hear … and I'm not yet hearing any voices inside my head."

Svip snorted grudgingly. "That's something, anyhow."

I smiled and patted Svip's shoulder, and I thought that Faramir would approve of his surrogate's efforts in the challenging duty of nursemaiding me.

We rode forth, into a battle that to this day remains unique in my memory.

Or rather, its uniqueness lies in my lack of memory.

In ordinary circumstances, my senses seem to me to be keener in battle than they are at any other time. And my memories of each battle hold that same sharpness. Never have I had difficulty recalling every detail of a conflict, be the battle from an hour before, or from years in the past. When I penned each battle report to my father, it was always as though my reports were composed already and just waiting for me to commit them to paper and ink, and as if the diagrams of the battle were already drawn up inside my head.

Now and again I have thought that, should I reach so advanced an age that my memory commences to fail, I will yet remember every moment of each battle in which I played a part. I may, perhaps, forget the names of my children and grandchildren, and all else of import to me, but I will remember the battles still, when everything else is gone.

It is not so, with the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

I remember, as we turned south from Gate, vowing to myself that I would keep hold on my consciousness. Somehow I would stop myself from wandering into the delirium that had claimed me on our retreat from the Causeway Forts. What though I might have no weapon left to me but my pigheaded determination. Somehow, I would force myself to remain fit for command.

As though I had managed to ride into battle drunk, I clung to my focus and control with the desperation of one who struggles to convince each Man who sees him that he is indeed sober.

I remember the unearthly feeling of cold that seemed to enfold me in its grasp. I felt as though my body existed as nothing but an icy wind, such a cold, deathly breath as the fallen must feel about them in the black corridors of the Barrow World.

I remember starting to speak to Svip. We were speaking of the _mûmakil_, and of what tactics we were best to use against them. I remember saying that we would have to rely on our archers to take them down, and remarking to Svip that regular horses seemed unable to go near the vast beasts without falling into panic. Svip declared that _he_ would not panic, and I recall saying to him that he must promise me he would not take too great risks in proving his lack of fear.

And there my memory seems to drop from the edge of the earth.

The next thing I can clearly recall is sitting up straighter on Svip's back, and gasping as, with a shocking jolt, some sensation returned to me.

I felt still infernally cold and numb. But, of a sudden, I felt again the wind on my face, the weight of my sword brandished in my right hand and the comforting solidity of Svip's shoulder beneath my left.

I stared at my sword and found it dripping with blood. A dull, distant sort of pain began to impose itself on my mind, focused on my left leg. I looked down to see a bloody slash across my thigh, and below, a similar wound on Svip's side, apparently from one long blow that had continued down from my leg, into Svip.

Panic leapt in my throat as I realised that I did not remember either of us receiving those wounds. Nor did I remember even drawing my sword, let alone wielding it in battle this morn.

"Svip!" I gasped out. "Are you all right? Your wound –"

"I told you, I'm fine," came Svip's cross-voiced reply. "What about your wound? Are you all right, too?"

I blinked and looked wildly about us. This action did nothing to still the tide of panic rising within me. For, somehow, we were two miles at the least from our last position that I remembered.

I looked behind us and saw the White City, proud and gleaming in the sunlight. Almost no trace of fighting could I see along the City's wall, only the smouldering wreck of a siege engine here and there, and the dark mounds of corpses, of _mûmakil_ and of countless smaller combatants. At the far south of the wall, up against Mindolluin, I could see a force that seemed to be largely Men on foot, running at full tilt upon the heels of another force in retreat, their race or allegiance indistinguishable in the distance except by the galloping _mûmakil_ that carved a deadly swath through their ranks. Pursuers and pursued were heading east toward the Rammas wall and the River.

For ourselves, I realised, we were perhaps two miles south of the City Road, and scarce a mile from the Harlond Gate.

None of the foe stood living nigh to us, but the evidence of battle lay all around, in a jumbled multitude of corpses. Some there were, unavoidably, of our own Men. But the numbers were far greater of such a variety of foemen as I had never seen upon one field: swarthy bejewelled Easterlings with their great battle axes clutched in lifeless hands, Variags of Khand in their bright yellow cloaks, Southrons with the scarlet paint of their armour overlain with blood, and a breed of Men that I did not know, half trolls perhaps, their hulking, butchered bodies seeming more like some nightmare statuary than like anything that had once held life.

The corpses lay scattered amid puddles of blood mingling with rainwater. But the rain, I realised, had passed us, moving off to the north and leaving us with a blustering spring wind, and the sun shimmering gaily upon the battlefield's pools of water and blood.

All around us stood our own Men, most breathing hard and leaning on swords and spears as though but moments past they had come through the end of combat. And there were others amongst us: horsemen of Rohan, with long yellow hair showing below helmets of silver, spears in hand, and the figures of horses painted upon their shields.

They, as well, had the look of Men who had just made their way through a mighty struggle. But in the midst of cleaning their spears, or unfastening their helmets to mop sweat from their brows, more and more of the Rohirrim Riders nearest us were halting their actions in mid-motion and were staring at me.

"Damn it to hell," I snarled, "where is that idiot Anborn?" I wiped my sword on my cloak, shoved it into its scabbard, and bellowed, "Anborn!"

The Ranger Lieutenant was near to hand. He broke off conversation with two of his comrades standing by him, and rode over to us, with an expression on his face of startled alarm. His steed neighed and shied as it came near to Svip, but the Ranger pulled it under control.

"My Lord?" Anborn said.

"Valar blast you, Man, is this how you obey a direct order? You were to remove me from command at the first sign of incapacity. You bloody fool, you will be demoted for this, that I promise you. Do you know how much you have risked, what damage you may have done to our cause, by ignoring that command?"

"My Lord," the unfortunate Ranger protested, "I saw nothing amiss with you. You have looked and sounded entirely yourself, from the moment you gave me that order, to this! What should I have seen that I did not? In what have I failed you?"

I began disbelievingly, "In what have you failed –?"

Svip cut me off. "Stop it, Boromir!" he snapped. "He's right. You've seemed perfectly fine. What's matter with you?"

"What's the – " I echoed, only to trail off stupidly in confusion. I stared at Anborn, who was still watching me with a look of bewildered dismay.

"Forgive me, Anborn," I managed. "Ignore all that I have just spoken. I – I am myself again."

The Lieutenant nodded warily. "Aye, My Lord." He rode away a few paces, to give me time and room to recover myself.

"Svip," I hissed, "is this true, then? Have I indeed seemed fit for command?"

"Of course you have," he said. "Don't you remember?"

"Not a moment of it. Not since we rode from the Gate. I – did I not seem … strange, then, or anything?"

My horse-shaped friend answered jokingly, "Not more than usual."

"Damn it, Svip, I am serious!"

We had no chance then to pursue the discussion further. One of the Rohirrim Riders was approaching. His steed snorted in protest, nearing Svip, but it made no other move or noise of complaint.

The white crest of the young horseman's helm, his pale gold hair, and his face alike were spattered with blood. But behind the blood and the mask of his helm's eye-guard, I had no difficulty in recognising Éomer Son of Éomund, lately Third Marshal of the Mark and now the King of the Men of Rohan.

Éomer leaned forward in his saddle, staring desperately at me. Then he demanded, "My Lord Boromir?"

Wearily, I smiled. "Hail and well met, Cousin Éomer," I greeted him.

"Hail and well met, Cousin Boromir," he replied as one dazed. The King of the Rohirrim stared at me a moment longer, then he burst out in protest, "They told me that you were slain!"

"I was," I admitted. "But not permanently. I will tell you the whole story, I vow it to you. But now is not the time."

Éomer glowered at me, as though trying to decipher if I were some figment of witchery. In tones almost of dread, he asked, "Will you tell me the truth, My Lord Cousin? Are you a spirit sent back to Middle Earth for the duration of this battle only? Will you return to the Barrow World when the battle ends?"

If truth were indeed to be told, I was not entirely convinced but that the answer to that might be yes. I certainly felt as though I were only half in bodily form, if that. But I said, "I will tell you the truth. I am no spirit, Éomer of Rohan. I live, and there is an earthly explanation for all of it – well," I added, patting Svip's neck, "a fairly earthly explanation."

The young Man swallowed. Then he nodded, striving to clear the astonishment from his face.

I held out my hand to him. As we shook hands, an involuntary gasp of wonder escaped him at this proof of my corporeality.

My next words were ones that I loathed to give the reality of speech, but they could not be avoided. "Lord Éomer," I said. "I grieve with you the loss of Théoden King."

Sorrow sprang to life in his eyes. "I thank you, My Lord," he answered heavily. He glanced over the battlefield, as though seeking more foemen on whom he might vent his grief.

Before I could go on, we were interrupted by the drumming of a single steed's hoofbeats, approaching from the south and west. I turned to see a wild-eyed horseman in the livery of Morthond, who galloped to us and saluted.

"My Lord Boromir," he said breathlessly over his horse's frightened whinny, "Lord Duinhir's compliments, and he begs leave to send a detachment of his Men back to the City. His sons the Lords Duilin and Derufin are fallen in combat. Lord Duilin, I believe, is slain, and Lord Derufin is sorely wounded, trampled by the accursed _mûmakil_. My Lord asks permission to send a few of Morthond's Men to escort Lord Duilin's body to safety, and bring Lord Derufin to the Houses of Healing."

"Valar's blood," I exclaimed, "he should not have awaited my permission for that! Yes, for gods' sakes, Man, go; take your Lord my order that he send as many Men as necessary to convey his sons to the City in safety."

"Thank you, My Lord!" The Man saluted again and was once more off at a gallop. I stared after him, and beyond, to the distance where we could yet see what presumably was Duinhir's force, relentlessly driving the foe toward the River's edge. For a moment I imagined that I could see Lord Duinhir, bellowing in fury and mowing down the Orcs that fled before him, while tears streaked the blood on his face.

"Valar damn it," I muttered under my breath. "Damn it all."

Éomer murmured, "This day is a dark one for us all. In spite of the sun shining upon us."

I nodded and turned back to the young King of Rohan. "My Lord," I said, returning to the subject that Duinhir's messenger had interrupted, "Théoden King was a great Man. He lived and died a true scion of the Line of Eorl, and Eorl will welcome him to his Hall. But Éomer, we must think now of the living. The Lady your sister –"

The grief that shone now in Éomer's gaze was wild almost to madness. He broke in upon my words, "I did not even know she rode with us! My sister was there, on all the long ride from Dunharrow to Minas Tirith, and I did not know her! How many times must my eyes have passed over her amid the Riders, yet I never saw her? And now – now –"

"Éomer!" I interrupted. "Éomer, stop. Stop. Listen to me. Your sister lives."

He stared once more, dread and hope warring on his face. His gaze bespoke confusion and shock more painful by far than the stunned look with which he had greeted my return.

"What did you say?" he whispered.

"Éomer, the Lady Éowyn lives. Mithrandir told me that you believed her dead. He charged me to bring the truth to you as soon as I might encounter you. She has been injured, it appears; I do not know what her injuries may be. I cannot speak to that with any use. I saw no wounds myself, but it was only for a few moments that I saw her –"

He breathed in disbelieving echo, "You saw her?"

"Yes. On the Lord Steward's command, knights of Dol Amroth bore her and the halfling Meriadoc to the Houses of Healing in the City. They will receive there all the care that mortal Men can give. Perhaps more, for Lord Mithrandir has made them his special charge. He will ensure that no path is overlooked in guiding them to health and strength."

For a moment more, the face of Éomer King was blank in unbelief. Then at last he broke into a marvelling smile.

"Éowyn lives," he whispered. He reached up in an attempt to wipe the sweat and blood from his face, though, in fact, all he succeeded in doing was smearing it around. A long, shuddering sigh escaped his lips, then the Horselord repeated his words in a shout. "Éowyn lives!"

His sudden joy almost made me regret bringing the news to him. How much blacker, I asked myself, would be his grief after this joy, if we made it through the day of battle only to learn that Éomer's sister had succumbed to her wounds?

But no, I argued. Mithrandir was right. We would have time enough in that hypothetical future to deal with the young lord's despair. I had less dread of that, than I had of how he might sacrifice himself in grieving battle frenzy.

"Yes," I told him. I smiled despite my concerns, at the pure joy lighting Éomer's face. "Your sister lives."

Laughing aloud, the Horselord drew his sword and cast it up in the air. Sunlight gleamed upon it as he effortlessly caught hold of the weapon's hilt, while Svip took a step away from him and I cast up a silent prayer that no future son of mine would ever perform that singularly moronic stunt.

It may not be the most politic of moves to inform a neighbouring nation's king that he is behaving like an idiot, but I considered that my greater age and our ties of blood should give me some latitude on the question.

"Cousin," I said, "may I beseech you to do me one favour? Cease flinging your sword about in that ridiculous fashion. I've no wish to be the Man who must explain to the Lady your sister how you came to impale yourself."

He looked at me a moment in startlement, then broke into a sheepish grin. He admitted, "Éowyn tells me off for doing that too."

"And well she should." I shook my finger chidingly at him, keeping my voice stern despite my grin that insisted on breaking forth. "Since your sister lives, you are honour-bound to emerge from this battle alive. Would you leave her robbed of all her kin, with no protector upon this Middle Earth?"

Éomer chuckled. "She would say it is I who needs the protector. I promise you, My Lord, I will do all that I can to remain alive and avoid Éowyn's wrath. I will not hurl away my life if there is any way I can avoid it."

As though they had awaited the most appropriate moment in our conversation, it was then that the enemy made their next move.

I frowned toward the Harlond, and remarked to Éomer, "Here come our next foes who'd like to help you hurl away your life."

Seeming hordes of them spilled forth through the Harlond Gate, advancing with wild, mocking yells that carried easily across the mile lying between us. For a moment, I wondered what it was that had inspired them so to confidence, that they thought it time to abandon the shelter of the Harlond and launch this strike against us.

Perhaps, I thought, reinforcements had reached them from across the River.

And then we saw the answer. Reinforcements had come indeed, but not from Anduin's farther shore.

"Damn, damn, damn," whispered Éomer of Rohan. He turned to me with a grim, hopeless smile, and he said, "Do you know, My Lord, I had almost come to believe that we might actually win."

Sailing into view around the bend at the Harlond came two ships, then another, and another, great ocean-going vessels tall-masted and black-sailed.

All about us Men's voices broke forth in cries of alarm and dread.

Svip, who had held silent thus far through my meeting with Lord Éomer, could maintain that silence no longer. He asked desperately, "Whose ships are those? Who are they?"

From the corner of my eye I saw Éomer turn his head sharply to stare at the talking horse. But this was not, I thought, the time for explanations of Svip's nature. From the way the battle seemed turning now, Éomer King might well go to his death without ever hearing that explanation – as were Svip and I very like to die without explaining.

Stroking Svip's mane, I answered him, "Pirates, Svip. Most likely the Corsairs of Umbar. For months now, there've been rumours that they had allied themselves to Mordor. I suppose now we know the truth of the rumours."

Ship after ship yet rounded the bend of the Anduin. Their whole fleet, it looked to be, every last vessel that had harried the Anfalas and Belfalas coasts these decades past.

No Man who saw that fleet, I think, needed to be told the inescapable conclusion: if the Corsairs' fleet had reached Minas Tirith, it could only be after scouring all our lands to the South. Dol Amroth, the Ethir Anduin, Lebinnin, Lossarnach: all of their lands along the coast and the Anduin shores were like to be ravaged long ere now, for it was not like any force of pirates to obey Sauron's bidding without plundering all that they could reach along the way.

I turned and shouted, "Lieutenant Anborn! Re-form our ranks!" To my Rohirrim cousin, I said, "What say you, Éomer King? Instead of sitting here awaiting our death, shall we ride forth to meet it, as befits the Lords of Gondor and Rohan?"

With his bitter smile, Éomer answered, "Aye, we shall, Boromir Son of Denethor." He, too, turned, and bellowed to his Men, "Eorlingas! Riders of Rohan! Form ranks! We will charge those scum and crush them under hoof, and we will hold their pirate friends from setting foot upon Gondor's shore!"

Every Man there, I am certain, knew the unlikelihood of those statements. But that did nothing to stop the fierce cheers that rang forth from Gondorians and Rohirrim as one.

Then suddenly the cheers dwindled into silence, a silence born of bewilderment rather than of fear.

From the mast of the foremost ship a great standard broke forth, dancing upon the wind as the vessel turned toward the Harlond. It was a standard that no Man living had seen, save in the pages of history books, and as a tattered relic preserved behind glass in the Steward's Armoury. But I will wager that near every Man of Gondor knew it, as did most of the Riders of Rohan beside.

The banner bore the White Tree of Gondor. About it gleamed seven stars, and above, the crown of the King: the signs of Elendil that no Lord had borne in nigh a thousand years. Stars and crown blazed in the morning's light. Slowly at first, then in their hundreds, the cheers rose up again; cheers, and cries of wonderment, and laughter, as the banner of the King of Gondor soared high on the winds of the morning.

Svip shifted impatiently beneath me. I realised that I had a death-grip on his mane, and let go of it, hoping I had not been hurting him badly. He made no mention of that, but he did cry out, "What is it, Boromir? What does it mean?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but found that I did not yet have any voice with which to answer. Lord Éomer, smiling bemusedly at Svip, murmured, "The Lord Aragorn. He is here, even as he said."

I bit my lip, recalling only then that from Mithrandir and Pippin's accounts, Éomer and his Riders had indeed encountered Aragorn, in the course of the Fellowship's adventures.

It was a strange mixture of reactions that I felt, in what should, no doubt, have been so pure and glorious a moment.

I was glad, most certainly: glad that the ships seemed likely to bear to us allies instead of yet more foes, joyous and thankful that perhaps this meant that the lands of South Gondor in truth yet survived. And I will not deny that it sent through me a thrill of pride and awe, to see for the first time the Standard of the King of Gondor borne aloft.

But with those emotions came a sinking of my heart, as I thought of what that banner's presence must mean.

Aragorn, here at last: Aragorn, as the King's Standard seemed to proclaim before all, here to claim his birthright of Gondor's crown. To lay claim to his birthright that many might challenge – not the least of whom, my father. To rescue us, perhaps, from the hosts of Mordor, and to set in motion a chain of events that might lead us to civil war.

With desperation in his voice, Svip repeated, "What does it mean?"

_I wish I could tell you that_, I thought. _I wish I knew what it will mean, for all of us_.

But I only said quietly, "They're friends, Svip. Our friends must have seized the pirates' ships. Things are not so black, after all."

Our foemen who had been swarming from the Harlond Gate wavered in their advance, as their guards on the Rammas yelled out the truth of the fleet's identity.

Éomer King laughed aloud, and he called to me in joy, "The hunt is up, Cousin Boromir! We will meet you at the Harlond!"

"At the Harlond, Cousin Éomer," I rejoined. "May you have good hunting."

With their young King at their head, the Riders of Rohan charged, striking east and north to halt the enemy from making any break for freedom in that direction. The laughter and singing and battle cries of the Rohirrim broke forth like bells of triumph upon the morning air.

Moments only had it taken to marshal our foot soldiers into orderly ranks once more. Now we, too, charged, cutting southward to trap our foe betwixt Rohan's force and ours. Svip had learned – perhaps in those minutes or hours that I seemed to have forgotten – to regulate his pace to that of the Men, so that he and I should not outrun their charge. Our own battle cry, "For Gondor!" rang forth in a thousand voices, among them my voice, and Svip's.

Dreamlike that battle was to me. But unlike our previous combat of that day, it was, at least, a dream that I remember. For me, it was as though every daydream of victory that I had dreamed since I was a boy, since the day I first understood that my family and I lived for the defence of Gondor, had come to life in that morning.

But if my daydreams had come to life, it seemed it was a life that I did not fully share.

As we rode down the foe, racing into the sun and the wind, I felt as though I had scarcely more substance than the wind itself. Swinging my sword down upon screaming Easterlings and Haradrim, seeing their blood arc upward in the sunlight-gleaming sky, I found myself wondering if indeed I were dead, and reborn as a spirit of battle that rode upon the winds. I remember thinking that if so, it was no ill fate. For such a fate any warrior would be glad, to spend his eternity striking down the enemies of his country, in death as he had in life.

Falling over each other in their precipitous flight, some flinging down their weapons that they might run the faster, the troops of the Enemy raced for the Gate and the shelter of the Harlond. But there they found no haven. For as our Men of Gondor and Rohan herded them to the Harlond Gate, from out of that gate strode a new force of foot soldiers. At the head of their ranks flew the banner of the Tree and the Stars and the Crown.

That fight was not eternity, no matter what my wild imaginings had told me. As in every battle, there came a time when blood no longer flew, when the shrieks and the battle cries sounded no more.

To the north, I heard still the shouting and singing of the Rohirrim, as they hunted down what few remnants of this band of foemen still lived. From beyond the Rammas also there came the sounds of combat; Men from the ships, I thought most likely, clearing the buildings of Waterfront of whatever enemies had occupied them.

Where our charge had reached its end, a quarter of a mile from the Harlond, not a Man of the enemy stood alive between my own troops and the Men who had leaped from the ships and swept through the Gate, breaking the foe's last hopes upon the wall of their axes and swords.

Svip, I realised, was panting heavily beneath me. Swiftly I wiped and sheathed my sword, and slid down from Svip's back, to stand by him rubbing his back and neck and studying his face in concern. I asked, "Are you all right, Svip? You don't have another wound?"

The horse shook his head, giving me an apologetic glance. "I'm not hurt," he managed. "Just tired."

"We're almost to the River," I said. "We'll get you to the water, you can have a swim. You'll feel better then –"

And then a Man's voice that I knew full well cried in a tone of wonder, "Boromir?"

I turned.

Scarce an arm's reach from us stood Aragorn Son of Arathorn. The sword of Elendil was unsheathed, gleaming and bloody in his hand. A leathern circlet with a gem like a star shone upon his brow.

To Aragorn's either side were Legolas Son of Thranduil and Gimli Son of Glóin. All three of them stared, stunned, upon me.

I was only too familiar with the looks that tended to greet my return from the dead. But seldom can any Man have confronted such a trio of flabbergasted expressions as I saw now on the faces of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli.

For a long moment, the three of them stood motionless and robbed of speech.

Aragorn was the first to recover his voice. Shaking his head slightly and frowning as one who finds himself in a hopelessly illogical dream, the Man of the North murmured, "You? Is it possible?"

As though the sound of Aragorn's voice had broken some spell that held him silent, Legolas burst into a torrent of speech. The words I did not know, but their basic meaning, I thought, was clear. I still do not know precisely what curse words the Wood Elves include in their vocabulary, but I am willing to wager that we heard most or all of them there, in the bloody rain puddles of the Pelennor Fields.

Gimli made a sort of desperate growl, a sound torn between anger and fear. Then he stepped forward of the other two, brandishing his axe.

"Come no closer!" he threatened me. "Touch my friends and I'll send you to the darkness you sprang from, wraith!"

My friend the horse turned his head questioningly to me, and made a rather unhorselike growling noise. Tired out or not, I realised, if Svip thought that I was at risk, he was likely to charge the Man, the Elf and the Dwarf, and do his best to trample them to death. The sooner I reassured him that we were all on the same side, the better.

I turned to Svip, patting his shoulder and smiling at him. "It's all right, Svip," I told him. "I promise it's all right. These are friends."

Still smiling, I turned back to the staring three.

I still felt more or less like death, as cold as a barrow and nigh as disembodied as the wraith that Gimli took me to be. But I grinned as I stood there, looking from the face of one of my old comrades, to the next, and the next.

I ought not, I told myself, to take pleasure in their confusion. But there had been little enough in which we could take pleasure, of late. I did not try very hard to halt the grin from spreading over my face.

"Peace, Master Dwarf," I said. "I'm no threat to your friends or to you, I promise you. And I'm no wraith, either." Forcing my face to some semblance of solemnity, I bowed to them and said, "Welcome to Minas Tirith, gentlemen. You took your time in getting here. I died and came back, and I got here sooner than you did."

A faint, wondering smile touched Aragorn's visage. In tones that told he yet could scarce credit that he was not dreaming, he asked, "Boromir? Is it you, indeed?"

"In the flesh." I cast a glance at Gimli and added, "The living flesh, believe me."

I held out my hand to Aragorn. For another moment, he gazed into my face. Then he wiped his sword clean and sheathed it, and reached out to clasp my hand.

"I cannot believe it," the Ranger marvelled, his smile growing wider. "First Gandalf and now you! Are we, then, to find all of our slain comrades brought to life again?"

"I fear not," I said. "I wish that we were."

Legolas stepped closer and held out his hand. I shook hands with the Elf in turn.

"I am glad to see you, Boromir," Legolas said.

"And I you."

Still glaring at me suspiciously from under his bushy red eyebrows, Gimli at last shoved his battle-axe into his belt and thrust out his hand to me. "Couldn't you have come back to life earlier, then?" he demanded, as we shook hands. "We had to carry you, you know. Nearly broke our backs, we did, hauling you around."

"Sorry," I grinned. "I will endeavour to lose some weight before the next time."

Legolas stared at me open-mouthed in surprise. Then he shook his head and laughed. Gimli snorted and muttered something under his breath, then burst out, "All right, I'll ask it, if these two aren't going to! How the bloody hell are you alive?"

Aragorn put in, frowning as he gazed across the field, "The telling of tales must wait. There are foes aplenty yet abroad, that we must put to rout before the day can be ours."

The Dwarf protested, "And how if he's killed before he can tell the story? Or if we are? I say, tell the tale now while we are all alive!"

"Aragorn is right, my friend," I said, marvelling a little to hear myself saying that. "We must fight now and tell tales later. We shall just all have to strive not to get slain before the story-telling."

Gimli opened his mouth to object once again, but our debate was ended by the arrival of Éomer Son of Éomund. His spear, broken halfway down the shaft, was strapped to his saddle. In his hand he held his longsword, dripping gore, and his armour and clothing were spattered and drenched with blood from the crest of his helmet to the toe of his boots. As he rode to us the Horselord cried out, "Lord Aragorn!"

The Northman smiled up at him. "Thus we meet again," he said, "though all the hosts of Mordor lay between us. Did I not say so at the Hornburg?"

"So you spoke," my young cousin replied. "But hope oft deceives, and I knew not then that you were a Man foresighted." Éomer glanced at me with a rueful smile, and added, "Although you spoke nothing of Lord Boromir's return. I shall be sore aggrieved, My Lord, if your foresight revealed this to you and you told me not of it."

Aragorn's smile turned melancholy. "There is much, my friend, that foresight does not reveal. It did not show me this reunion. But my heart rejoices that I see it now."

"It is well that we have something in which to rejoice," Éomer went on, his expression and voice growing sombre in turn. "Much loss and sorrow has befallen us this day, and more is like to come."

"Then let us avenge it, ere we speak of it," said Aragorn.

My reunion with my comrades of the Fellowship might have taken place upon an unpeopled plain, for all the notice I had taken of the other warriors around us. Now I noted, for the first time, the large numbers of Men gathering about us, observing our meeting in undisguised curiosity.

Close by Svip and me were Lieutenant Anborn and many others of our Men. Near to Aragorn and his companions stood a tall, grim faced Man who reminded me much of Aragorn, or at least of Aragorn as I had seen him at the first, a weather-beaten and world-wearied Ranger. This Man held the staff to which the King's Standard was now fastened. Among the others about Aragorn, I saw many whom I presumed to be followers of his from the Northlands, but others were there that must have joined his advance in whatever circumstances the pirate fleet had been seized, for the cut and colours of their clothing and the insignia they bore identified them as Men of our southern fiefdoms.

Approaching now through the open Harlond Gate were Men leading horses of proud and noble bearing, that I thought likely to be steeds of Rohan. Several of these horses were led to Aragorn and those about him.

Svip attempted to step back away from the other horses, but he found his way impeded by the press of Men. To my surprise, I saw that none of the horses seemed particularly troubled by Svip's presence. There were a few uneasy snorts, but not one of these steeds seemed any more disturbed than had that of Éomer, when Svip and I first encountered him.

An idea occurred to me. I asked of Aragorn, "Do your steeds hail from Rohan?"

"These do, yes," he replied, looking puzzled.

"Lord Éomer," I said, turning to the Horselord, "if by chance there is any of your Rohirrim horses available, I would beg the use of one for the remainder of this day."

Svip made a sort of little gasping noise that I read as a protest. I turned to face him, saying firmly, "You have gone through too much already, Svip. I'll not ride you for the rest of the day." Affecting not to notice the quizzical looks of the watchers around us, I went on. "You can ride with me if you like. That's why I've asked Lord Éomer for one of his steeds; they seem less afraid of you than others. But I won't have you serve as a warhorse any more today. That's my final word on the subject."

Éomer King had at least heard Svip speaking earlier, so he presumably did not think me as mad as he might otherwise have done. He said solemnly, "We have steeds available in plenty, My Lord Boromir. Their riders will need them no longer. I shall have one brought to you."

"Then come, My Lords," said Aragorn, forestalling any possible questions on my unusual discussion with my horse. With ease, Aragorn mounted the large, dark grey horse that had been brought to him, a beast somewhat thicker of build than Gandalf's Shadowfax, but still looking close kin to the Meara. A smaller, lighter horse was led to Legolas. As the Elf leapt to its back, I noted that, like Svip and I, Legolas and his steed interacted without use of saddle or rein.

Far less comfortable with the horse in question was Gimli, who groaned and muttered some Dwarvish imprecation when Legolas held down his hand to pull Gimli up after him.

"Not again," the Dwarf complained. "Can't you leave off tormenting me? I can kill plenty on foot, I promise you. I fight all the better when I'm not worrying about falling off some great beast's rump."

"Yes, friend Dwarf," said Aragorn, with a smile, "but if you fight on foot today, you will spend your day walking between one group of foes and the next – and mayhap you will never catch up with any of them."

"And your tally of kills will fall so far behind mine," Legolas added, with an innocent gaze that spoke of some in-joke between the Elf, the Dwarf and the Ranger, "that you're never likely to catch up with me, either."

Gimli growled back, "That's the only argument you could use that would work on me, and you know it!"

With seemingly no effort, the Elf pulled Gimli up to sit behind him. It was my turn to gaze in wonder for a moment, at the unheard-of sight of an Elf and a Dwarf together on horseback.

I was not the only one, I told myself, who had gone through some unusual experiences in the weeks since I'd parted from the Fellowship.

In tones more respectful than I would have expected from him while smarting under his high-handed manner of leading our company, Aragorn asked, "Lord Boromir, is there aught that we should know of the course of the battle, that would decide where we will be of most use?"

"Not at this point, I believe," I said, wishing like mad that I did not have a gaping hole in my memories of the morning. "There are scattered groups of the enemy about the plain; as I see it our task now is to rout out these pockets of them and ensure that none survive in any bolt-hole or stronghold within the Rammas."

"So I see it, as well," agreed the Ranger chieftain. "Will you and your Men ride with us, My Lord?"

I shook my head. "The most of my Men are afoot. Do you go your way, and we will go ours. I doubt not that there are enough of the foe about. We shall all have successful hunting."

Aragorn nodded. He hesitated a moment, then he rode over to where I stood, leaned over and asked in a low voice, "Are you well, Boromir? You look … paler than you used to. As if you have been ill." With a rueful smile, he added, "And I feel like a damned fool, saying that to a dead Man."

I managed to smile faintly back at him. "I am not entirely well, as such," I admitted. "But I will be. It is part of the story that I will tell the three of you – when the day is ours."

Aragorn straightened in the saddle. "Then we will see you again," he said quietly, in parting. "When the day is ours."

While Aragorn's followers mounted up and rode off at his command, I issued my next orders.

During the encounter with Aragorn and the others, I'd determined in my mind that I would divide my force. I would leave the City Guards and the troops of our regular Army to garrison the Harlond, securing it against any further incursions by the enemy.

I could, of course, have asked Aragorn to provide some of his Men for that duty. But several considerations – unworthy perhaps, but practical – spoke against that option.

Until our political position grew more certain, and we had some notion of Aragorn's plans, I had no wish to leave his troops in command of one inch of Gondor's lands. Nor did I wish to explain to my father how Aragorn's followers had gained control of any fragment of territory.

One of Éomer's Riders led to me a sorrel horse that he said was named Fengel; an ill-omened name, I would have thought, but one that he assured me was bestowed in jest, due to this horse's gentle and placid nature. I would just have to trust, I told myself, that Rohan's new King was mature enough not to play pranks by providing a horse that would send Svip and me flying head over tip the instant we sat on its back.

The beast endured Svip's presence patiently enough, nor did it give me any difficulty as I rode it to the Harlond Gate, with Svip in horse form plodding along at my side. Fengel grew restive at last when I dismounted within the Gate, and Svip changed back into his own form. My small green friend wobbled a little, then suddenly sat down, looking up at me in surprise at the fact that his legs had given out.

I called for one of the Men to take charge of Fengel, as the horse sidestepped away from the transformed water being. Then I knelt and scooped Svip up in my arms, ignoring his protests that he was all right, really.

I had given my orders to Anborn. Under his direction, detachments of our Men spread out through the battered settlement.

The marks of the enemy's recent presence were clear. Many buildings' doors were torn off their hinges, windows were shattered, all manner of drygoods, crockery and the possessions of Waterfront's inhabitants were scattered over the cobblestones. Here and there, as well, was the corpse of a Southron or Easterling. But no living foe seemed left, on the Harlond nor across the River.

The erstwhile pirate fleet dominated Waterfront's skyline, black-sailed ships docked cheek-by-jowl with the burnt-out, crippled remains of the vessels that had been in dock when our foes made their assault. As I hurried to the water's edge, I found myself eyeing the pirate ships, and wondering if one would do as a replacement for the Merchant Adventurers' lost flagship. But there would be time later for all such reckonings. For now, my first need, and Svip's, was to get both of us into the River.

At the top of the jetty stairs, Svip squirmed in my arms. He commanded, "Put me down." The instant I had obeyed, he raced down the stairs and dove into the water.

I could feel my hands shaking again as I divested myself of helm, cloak and sword, discarding them in a heap on the pier. The rest of my gear I left on, and I hastily followed Svip down the jetty stairs.

The thought occurred to me that Anborn, maintaining a respectful distance from us but keeping a wary eye on my every move, must expect me to sink like a stone, the instant my weary, armour-clad body hit the water.

I thought, _I should tell him he doesn't have to worry_. Then I stepped into Anduin's waters, and for those first few moments all other thoughts were gone.

It was perhaps five minutes later, when Svip and I made our dripping way back to the quay.

_How many times do you think you can pull that off_? I demanded of myself, as I gave my hair a desultory towelling on my cloak and donned my helmet once more. _How many times do you think you can push yourself to the edge of death, and then just jump in the River and make everything right again_?

_Someday, Boromir, you will push it too far_.

_Someday, perhaps_, my mind answered cheerfully. _But not today_.

I had no need of asking Svip, to be assured that his brief dunking had done as much good as had mine. The best evidence was his talking a blue streak, on the topic that I had been wrong in deciding to ride Fengel instead of him, and I ought to let Svip be my warhorse for the rest of the day, after all.

On that decision, I remained obdurate. The water creature did not cease in his arguments until he was mounted before me against Fengel's neck. He was struck into silence, then, by his dread of frightening the mighty horse.

A long and bloody day of it yet stretched before us.

The Nazgûl, it seemed, had vanished with the dark, or perhaps with the slaying of their Captain. There seemed as little trace left of the Orc hordes, save for corpses. I presumed that on the Black Rider's flight, the majority of the Orc armies had fled the field, as speedily as their legs could carry them.

But the Men who had answered the Dark Lord's call were not so easily swept from our fields.

Haradrim and Easterling alike are reputed as war-hardened peoples, who will fight to the last without thought of quarter. Many among them upheld their reputation on that day.

Wherever Men could make a stand, there they did. Behind the long stone pasture walls, in cottage and farmhouse and inn; almost, it seemed, in every miniscule dip in the ground, the Men of Harad and the East entrenched themselves, fighting until life was hacked from them.

Many times I offered to Svip to send him back to the City. Each time he held firm, insisting that he had to remain with me to keep me safe.

In solemn and wide-eyed silence Svip clung to Fengel's neck, as we rode beside our foot troops of Ringló, Ethir, Anfalas and Ithilien, tracking down each straggling band of our foe.

Not until day faded at last, the sunset dyeing sky and River the same bloody hue that stained our fields, did our mounted scouts bring back word that no enemies lived to be hunted down.

The scouts who bore these tidings brought other news that I had asked of them. The troops from the ships, and their mysterious leader who rode under the Banner of the King, were bivouacked a mile from the City, at the Crossroads of the White Tree Inn.

As the sun sank behind the shadows of Mindolluin, I ordered my foot soldiers to return to the City. With the small party of Ithilien Rangers who were on horseback, Svip and I set out for the Crossroads.

We were not alone in following that road. The thought struck me, not without some bitterness, that Aragorn was like to a magnet, drawing to himself all other powers in Gondor. When we drew near enough to discern the tents of his Men through the red dusk, with the King's Standard planted before one of them, I saw also the horsemen and banner of Rohan. Éomer himself, I saw standing in conversation with Aragorn outside his tent. Approaching along the City Road from the direction of the Rammas, was a troop of my uncle's Swan Knights of Dol Amroth.

I alighted from the stolid Fengel, the horse making no protest as I reached up to take Svip from his back. Afoot, Svip and I started toward Aragorn's tent.

In the lengthening shadows of dusk, I might not have noticed Gimli where he sat huddled in the roots of a great oak that stood by the roadside. But the distinctive odor of the smoke from the Dwarf's pipe alerted me to his presence. As we drew near, Gimli leapt to his feet, with a startled cry that he cut off before it could form into words.

"Hail, Gimli Son of Glóin," I greeted him quietly. "What is amiss?"

"Nothing," he answered in gruff tones. "For a moment I took … your companion for one of the Hobbits."

"Pippin and Merry are both in the City," I told him.

"They are!" cried the Dwarf. "Then they are safe?"

"Pippin is well. Merry … has been wounded, but Mithrandir is with them and tending to him."

"Aye. Well. That is well, then," Gimli said, and he swiftly took a puff on his pipe, as though to take refuge from the emotion that was sounding clearly in his voice.

I glanced down to Svip, who was eyeing Gimli in curiosity, and wrinkling his nose as he sniffed at the pipe smoke.

"Gimli Son of Glóin," I said, "let me introduce to you my comrade Svip of Anduin. You encountered Svip earlier today," I continued, "when he was in the form of my horse."

From his comically suspicious expression, the Dwarf was about to accuse me of pulling his leg. But before Gimli could speak, Svip's natural garrulousness broke forth. "I could turn into horse form and show you," Svip offered, "but you don't like horses much, do you? I don't, either. Well, they don't like me, anyway. I suppose it comes to pretty much the same thing."

Gimli cast a bewildered look at me, but he answered gamely, "Horses are well enough. So long as I am not on them. A Dwarf's feet are made to be on the ground, or under it. Not kicking about in the air around some horse's midriff."

"You could ride me, if you like. When Boromir doesn't need me, that is. I'd promise not to throw you. I've never thrown you, Boromir, have I?"

"No," I answered Svip, smiling down at him, "it's true, you've never thrown me."

Three figures were approaching us on foot from the direction of Aragorn's tent. As they neared, the figures resolved themselves into Aragorn, Legolas, and Éomer of Rohan.

A few words of greeting were all that we had time to speak. Moments after the three of them reached us, the knights of Dol Amroth rode into Aragorn's camp. Foremost among the knights, springing from his steed and striding toward us, was Prince Imrahil himself.

My uncle called, "Hail, Nephew! I have not had the chance to greet our unexpected and most welcome allies. Will you present me, that I may shake hands with the warriors who have saved Minas Tirith –"

Of a sudden, Imrahil froze in the middle of his enthusiastic speech. He was near enough to gain a clear view of Aragorn's face, and now the Prince of Dol Amroth stood as though stricken dumb, staring at the Ranger chieftain in a mixture of amazement, disbelief, and I knew not what.

I thought that the look on my uncle's face spoke of dread, but I could not imagine why that would be. What was there to be seen about Aragorn's person that should cause the Lord Imrahil any dread?

Aragorn bowed and said quietly, "Hail, My Lord Prince. I know that I speak for my companions as well as myself, when I say that is our honour to have been of service."

I looked from Imrahil to Aragorn and his comrades. Aragorn's expression seemed one of understanding and sympathy, as if he comprehended all too well the embarrassment from which my uncle was suffering. If Aragorn did comprehend it, I thought, it seemed that he was the only one who did. Legolas and Gimli appeared both as out of their depth as I, glancing first at each other and then at me with looks of helpless bewilderment. For Éomer's part, the look on his face was fully as blank as the expression that I felt certain was on my own.

Imrahil cast a hasty, almost furtive glance over his shoulder. Then the Prince took control of himself, and bowed to Aragorn.

Belatedly recalling that I was supposed to be performing introductions, I said, "My Lord Uncle, I present to you the Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn, and his companions, Prince Legolas the son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood, and Gimli Son of Glóin, of Erebor. These three gentlemen and I were among the company that journeyed together from Imladris. Sirs," I continued, "I present to you Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth."

Respectful bows were exchanged all around. My uncle said, "Gentlemen, I thank you. And for my own part, I bid you welcome. It is not my place to welcome you to Gondor. But for myself I welcome you, indeed, and I thank you from the depths of my heart – both for the quest that you undertook at Imladris, and for your services to Gondor on this day." He turned then toward Éomer, bowing again and welcoming the Rohirrim in terms that seemed less guarded by far than those he had used to Aragorn and his companions.

I glanced again at Legolas and Gimli. The face of the Elf bore a frown of preoccupied thought, while the Dwarf looked near to bursting with exasperation, impatiently drumming his fingers upon his axe-head.

_One of us will have to ask it_, I thought with a sigh. I began, "Uncle; Aragorn; forgive my presumption. But it appears that the two of you comprehend some meaning in our situation that is lost upon the rest of us. I must ask what it is that so troubles you."

The thundering approach of another troop of horsemen put paid to any continuance of that conversation. My uncle looked over his shoulder again, and to my amazement he muttered, "Damnation. Now we shall have some fireworks."

The Prince my uncle is the most courteous of Men, notwithstanding his odd sense of humour which can reveal itself in some rather peculiar circumstances. It astounded me to hear him make such a remark in the presence of Aragorn and the others, even more than I had been astounded to see him allowing his confusion to show so plainly.

"Uncle," I protested, "I must know what –"

Grimly my uncle observed, "Here comes your father."

Again I glanced at Aragorn, suddenly curious to see how he would react to this latest information. The Northman stood straight and tall, the last remnants of the sunset glowing in the depths of the brooch that Galadriel had given to him, and glinting from the star that shone upon his brow. He appeared calm, as usual. But the resigned and wary look upon his face reminded me suddenly of his expression just before the commencement of combat.

Even thus, I thought, had he gazed into the shadows as we awaited the attack of bewitched Wargs in the snowstorm, and as he and I took our stand behind Mithrandir, at the edge of the Bridge of Khazad-dûm

Legolas and Gimli stepped forward and stood at Aragorn's either side. Svip stepped forward to stand beside me.

My father rode up to us at the head of the White City's surviving cavalry, drawing in rein and gazing silently at we who stood before him.

I half expected from him some surprised reaction akin to that of the Prince, but in that I was disappointed. I should, I suppose, have known better than to expect my father ever to show surprise. But there was much to be read upon his face, nonetheless.

With mouth bitterly set and eyes blazing as keenly as the gems that the Northman wore, my father stared at the Lord Aragorn. It was such a look, I thought, as I had on many occasions seen him turn upon Mithrandir: angered, impatient, and boiling over with dislike.

But yet it seemed more than that, stronger and more bitter by far than any gaze he had aimed at the Wizard. It was as though the annoyance that Mithrandir caused him were the merest shadow of the anger and loathing he felt now, gazing upon the Ranger of the North.

Wrenching his gaze from the face of Aragorn, my father launched into a speech of welcome and friendship to Éomer, which Éomer answered in like terms. Only when these pleasantries were concluded, did the Steward turn again to Aragorn and his comrades.

With voice calm but as biting as the winds off the Ered Nimrais, my father said, "My Lords, I bid you welcome on behalf of all Gondor. Your assistance this day was as timely as it was unlooked-for. For Gondor, I thank you and all of your Men, and I extend to you the hospitality of Minas Tirith."

As Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli bowed, the Steward's glance turned on me. "Boromir," he said, "will you perform the introductions, since I perceive that you are acquainted with these gentlemen?"

"Yes, My Lord," I said, striving to keep both my voice and my face expressionless. From his tone, my father might as well have accused me of consorting with the lowest conceivable collection of vagabonds and mountebanks.

Again I recited the names and patronymics of my erstwhile companions. As I spoke the name "Aragorn Son of Arathorn," my father's mouth twisted in a sneer of scorn and distaste.

"You, in particular, are welcome, My Lord Aragorn," the Steward spoke with honeyed malice, "if that is the name by which you prefer now to be known. It is long since we have seen you within Gondor's realm."

"It is, indeed, My Lord," Aragorn agreed, bowing his head and then looking up to calmly meet my father's gaze. "I rejoice in my heart to look upon the White City's walls again."

This little interchange meant to me precisely nothing.

A glance around at the assembled warriors did not bring me any enlightenment. Húrin and the others of my father's Men kept a respectful distance, a few feet behind the Steward. Their faces bore the careful, stoic blankness of any follower seeking to look as though he is not overhearing his master's discussions. Uncle Imrahil frowned in worry, looking back and forth between Aragorn and my father. Legolas' face was unreadable, and Gimli wore his belligerent scowl, as though daring anyone to speak a cross word at Aragorn. Éomer again looked simply bewildered, in which I felt a great deal of kinship with him.

Gazing beyond the group immediately surrounding us, my father's eyes settled upon the King's Standard, stars and crown gleaming crimson in the ruddy dusk. Speaking still in smooth and venomous tones, the Steward inquired, "Do you come to us now to press your claim, My Lord?"

"I claim nothing, Lord Steward," Aragorn answered quietly. "When peace at last is upon us, if indeed it ever comes, then I would seek leave to state my case to the Council. It will be for them to decide its merit or lack of such. But while the hatred of Mordor is yet loosed against us, I have come to wield my sword in Gondor's service, no more and no less."

"Do not believe that Gondor is ungrateful for your services, Lord Aragorn," my father returned. "You and your troops have leave to billet in the City. The garrison of Minas Tirith boasts not now its manpower of ages past; I doubt not that we have room enough for all."

"I thank you, My Lord," Aragorn replied. "I would not have it said by any that I entered the City in force, and that future decisions of the Council were influenced by the presence of an army within Minas Tirith's walls. I will not enter in, nor yet make any claim, until it be seen whether we or Mordor shall prevail. I will await here what the morrow may bring."

The Steward smiled, eyeing Aragorn with a gaze of pure loathing. "I would not have Men say that we of Minas Tirith left our saviour to linger as a beggar upon our doorstep."

"Say not as a beggar," Aragorn countered, smiling back. "Say rather as a Captain of the Rangers, who are unused to cities and houses of stone."

My father kept his smile firmly set, although I saw his right hand tighten into a fist, and I could only guess at the bitter words that he was holding in check. "Let it be as you will have it, My Lord Captain of the Rangers," he said at last. "And let the morrow bring first a council of war, that we may determine how best we are to proceed. Since you choose not to pass the City's gates, then let the assembled Captains meet at your tents upon the morn. If you will have us, My Lord, of course," the Steward added snidely.

"Of course, Lord Denethor," assented Aragorn, bowing once again and affecting not to notice the Lord Steward's glaring hatred. "The Captains will be welcome indeed, as will be the wisdom that you bring to our council."

"Very well," said my father. "At the first hour past the dawning, here we will meet in council. I wish you pleasant rest this night, Captain of the Rangers."

His gaze turned upon me once more. "Boromir, will you return to the City with me? Or do you prefer passing the evening with your comrades? I would have thought you had enough to draw you back within our walls, with your brother lying mayhap upon the door of death."

Mentally I cursed the Lord my father for so blatantly using Faramir's condition against me. "I will follow you shortly, My Lord," I told him, biting off the other words I wished to fire back at him.

"My Lord Éomer," the Steward continued then, "I have not yet had the opportunity to express the sorrow that all of us feel with you, in the loss that you and your people have suffered. Be assured that we will proceed according to your wishes. While the body of Théoden King remains in the White City, he will lie in state in the House of the Stewards, if that meets with your approval. All respect shall be paid to him, as you may direct. You and your Riders are welcome to the hospitality that Minas Tirith yet can offer."

"Thank you, Lord Steward," Éomer said, "for myself and for the people of Rohan. I long to pay my respects to Théoden King, but I confess that another thought pulls me to the City with yet greater force. My sister, I have been informed, lies in your Houses of Healing. I would not let another hour pass without seeing her, and I fear that I may have let too many hours pass already."

I noticed Aragorn start in surprise, and he turned swiftly as though to ask some question of Éomer. Whatever question he might have asked, however, he apparently thought better of it.

"Then I will see you at the City, My Lord Éomer; Imrahil; Boromir."

With no further speech and without a backward glance, the Steward wheeled his horse and set out toward the City, the cavalry parting to allow him to ride to the fore of their ranks.

Éomer King bowed to the rest of us. He began, "Until the morrow, Lord Aragorn."

"Cousin, wait for me," I interjected. "I will ride with you to the City."

The Horselord nodded, exchanged goodnights with the others, and walked over to rejoin his Men.

My uncle of Dol Amroth yet lingered, a profoundly uneasy expression on his face.

As the hoofbeats of my father's cavalry grew muted by distance, I snapped, "I hope that at least one of you gentlemen can be prevailed upon to explain to me what the bloody blazes that was all about!"

No answer was spoken. My uncle looked unhappier still, if that were possible, and Aragorn looked as inscrutable and uninformative as the carven kings that line the Tower Hall.

I glowered at Prince Imrahil, vowing to myself to hound him without mercy until I wormed from him some elucidation of the encounter we had just passed. Then I turned back to my three old companions.

"Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli," I said, "if you cannot accept the invitation of my father, perhaps you can accept one from me. Visit me at my townhouse whenever your duties may permit; it will be open to you at any hour of the day or night. We have still to recount those tales that we have promised each other. My townhouse stands upon the Fifth Level of the City, just beyond the tunnel's southern door. Anyone of the City can give you directions, should you require them. Accept my invitation, if you will, and know that you are truly welcome to enter the City, as friends."

Aragorn smiled with a touch of melancholy. "Thank you, Boromir," he said. "I do not yet know if I will prove able to avail myself of your welcome. But our Elven and Dwarven friends, I think, would not pass up an opportunity for the swapping of tales, nor would I wish them to do so."

"Come when you will," I answered, "any or all of you. You are welcome."

At last I glanced down to Svip, who had watched in silence all of these mysterious doings of Men. "All right, Svip," I said. "One more horseback ride. The last one for today, I promise you."

We rode for the White City as the sunset's last glow faded. To one side of Svip and me rode Éomer of Rohan; to the other, Imrahil of Dol Amroth. Each rode in silence, wrapped in thoughts that I had no doubt were as troubled as my own.

I thought of Aragorn Son of Arathorn, and his gleaming banner out of legend. I thought of whatever mystery bound together my father, my uncle, and Aragorn. I asked myself how I might unravel the secret that caused my father to gaze upon Aragorn with such unrelenting hatred.

Most of all, I thought of my brother as I had last seen him, lying pale and silent and as motionless as death.

For once, I was not entirely glad to see the circles of my City rising before us.

This time, I dreaded what I might find within its walls.

Lord Éomer's thoughts were following similar paths to mine. The Horselord turned to me and asked, "The Steward said that the Lord Faramir is wounded?"

"Yes," I said. "He is in the Houses of Healing. His wound would be no threat to him, in itself. But it seems he is suffering from the malady that has struck down many of our Men – from the black shadow of the Nameless One's henchmen." I hesitated, then I said, "Éomer – I ought to have told you when we spoke before. Mithrandir fears that the same malady has struck the Lady your sister. That in slaying the Ringwraith, she ventured too close for her safety, and she lies now in the dark sleep of the Wraith Lord's touch."

The Great Gate was almost upon us. A sickly, dread-filled smile touched Éomer's face.

The King of Rohan stared at the Gate. He whispered in tones almost too low for me to hear, "I know not which to feel, My Lord Cousin. Eagerness to reach Éowyn – or fear of what I may find."

Svip looked up at me in concern, his hand closing over mine where I held to Fengel's reins.

I tried to smile reassurance, both at Svip and at Éomer. Whether or not I reassured either of them, I did not succeed in reassuring myself.

"I know, Lord Éomer," I whispered. "I know."


	17. Chapter Seventeen: The Lords of Gondor

Author's Note (December 2003): Hello, all! I've been rushing to get this posted before the opening of _ROTK_, so I've managed to put it together in less time than usual. I hope you enjoy! Tolkien-philes will notice bits of Tolkien's actual text in here; all acknowledgements to the Professor, of course, and I hope the various bits fit in here okay. This will probably be the last I'll manage to post for a couple of months, anyway – it will probably be late Jan./early Feb., at the earliest. At the New Year, we're moving from Wyoming to Virginia – but I promise to work on the next chapter as much as I can, in the U-Haul!

Happy Yule and a joyous New Year to all of you!

_Chapter Seventeen: The Lords of Gondor _

"My Lords!"

The young clerk who leapt up from his desk at the entrance to the Houses of Healing was the same youth I'd encountered earlier, on my first visit to Faramir. As before, this clerk seemed little short of terrified on seeing a handful of great lords come striding up to his desk. I told myself that I should suggest to the Healers they assign this boy to some other post, where he would be less in the line of fire.

I started for the stairs, with Svip scurrying at my side and Imrahil and Éomer following close behind me.

"My Lord," the clerk stammered flusteredly, as we swept past him. "You are wounded, sir?"

"It is nothing. Do you know to what rooms the Lady Éowyn and the halfling Meriadoc have been taken?"

"The lady is in the Tar-Amandil room; the halfling's room is just down the hall from hers."

"Thank you." We clattered up the stairs, the noise of our progress seeming the only token of life in the empty, torch-lit corridors.

We encountered no one until we had reached the rooms of the highest-ranking patients. Alerted, perhaps, by the sound of armoured warriors clanking down the hallway, Mithrandir stepped out from the room of Lady Éowyn. The Wizard's white hair and robes imparted to him a ghostly aura in the twilight. At the same moment as Mithrandir stepped into the hall, the Chief Healer hastened out from the stairwell that connected to his office on the floor below. The Healer nearly tripped over Svip, who gave a little yelp and huddled closer to my side.

"Your pardon, My Lords," the Healer said, bowing. "The Lord Steward has summoned me."

I nodded, and the Man hurried on into Faramir's room, with a look on his face as though he were summoned to his execution.

As the Healer made his apologies, Éomer cried out, "Mithrandir! Does my sister yet live?"

"She lives, My Lord," Mithrandir said gravely. "I fear there is little else that I can tell you. The malady that lies upon her, and on so many in this House, is no shadow that I have power to lift."

The King of Rohan took a step toward his sister's room, then, managing to recall convention even in the depths of his distress, he stopped and turned back to Imrahil and me. "You will excuse me, My Lords?" he asked. "I … I would sit with my sister for a time, then I will stop in to inquire how the Lord Faramir fares."

"Go, Éomer," I said. "Your sister needs you now. Do not concern yourself with anything but that."

The young Man's gaze flickered toward the door of Éowyn's room, then back to us. In troubled tones he murmured, "I should be standing vigil over Théoden King … It is my place to be there …"

"And Théoden King would tell you to go to your sister," I interposed, wondering if we would have to be debating this all night. "Go."

Éomer nodded, gave us another sickly smile, and departed into his sister's room.

I sighed. "Will you sit with him a while, Mithrandir," I asked, "that he may, at least, be able to talk with someone? I fear he will tear himself to pieces, else."

Mithrandir nodded. "I am sorry to have no tidings of hope for you, My Lords," he said, grief and bitterness sounding in his tones. "I would have been of more use had I remained upon the battlefield, for here I have done nothing save to wait and watch."

I hesitated, then reached out and clasped the Wizard's shoulder. "That may be all that is left for any of us to do. But I thank you, Mithrandir. Faramir would be glad that you have been here – as would Merry, as well. Has the Halfling, then, fallen into this same sleep as the others?"

"He has. Through the morning and the early afternoon he, the lady and Lord Faramir all still spoke in their sleep. But I think it is now three hours, at the least, since any of them has spoken."

Imrahil and I exchanged a grim glance. Then I nodded to Mithrandir, and we hastened onward to Faramir's room.

The Lord Steward sat by the bedside, holding Faramir's hand. At the other side of the bed stood the Chief Healer, enduring with some difficulty the Steward's glare of rage.

"He is sweating," my father said, in accusatory tones. "He is sweating now, when you and your people confirm that he has not done so before, through all the hours that this fever has been upon him. Yet none of you saw fit to take notice of this until I pointed it out to you. And none of you can tell me what it means?"

"I am sorry, My Lord," managed the Healer. "This malady is beyond our experience and our knowledge. It may be, perhaps, a sign of hope; a sign that the unnatural course of the fever is ending, and his body is at last rallying to throw the fever from him."

"Yes," the Steward snapped, "and it may be a sign that the end is closing in on him. You say it is since the mid-afternoon that he has not spoken, and that all those who have died of this 'malady' have ceased speaking hours before their deaths."

"I am sorry, My Lord," the Chief Healer said again. "I do not know what I can tell you."

"Take my advice," my father replied, in his most quietly intimidating voice, "and do not speak those words to me again. If you do not know, then find out. Get you to the wards where the other patients lie, and learn whether any of them have commenced sweating, and what has followed then. Begone!"

The Chief Healer bowed and made his escape. My father followed the Healer's exit with his gaze, then he looked at Imrahil, Svip and me.

"So you've seen fit to come home," he greeted me mockingly. "Is the Lord Aragorn comfortably ensconced in his tent?"

"I do not know as to his comfort, Father," I said, vowing that I would not allow myself to get into a fight with him now. "I did not stop to inquire of it."

I pulled the other chair, that had been set under the window, over to the side of the bed opposite my father's seat. Only those two chairs were in the room, a fact that my father made the next focus of his ire.

One of the Healers' Assistants hurried into the room with fresh cloths and a jug of water. The Steward stood up and grabbed these from her, and snapped, "You, girl! Bring another chair; are there not chairs enough in this House, that the Prince of Dol Amroth must be left standing? And have someone come tend to the Lord Boromir's hurts. What manner of House of Healing is this, in which a warrior may walk with his leg streaming blood, and no Healer thinks to ask if he requires assistance?"

The girl made a hasty curtsy and fled. My father sat down again, poured water onto one of the cloths and commenced dabbing the cloth over Faramir's face.

I stared for a moment at my brother, the black of his hair a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin, where the hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

I had almost forgotten Svip's presence, until he cautiously tugged at my sleeve. "What is it, Svip?" I asked. "I'm sorry, we should have sent for a chair for you, too."

"No, it's all right," Svip said. "Is it … is it all right if I go visit the other Hobbit? Pippin's friend?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. Pippin is probably with him, too. It should be the room just the other side of Lady Éowyn's."

Svip cast a wan smile at all of us, then he hastened from the room. I wished almost that I could do the same.

"My leg is not streaming blood, sir," I said wearily. "The wound is hours old, and it is a shallow one, at that."

"Nonetheless," my father said, "it should be seen to. The smallest of wounds may become infected. And these Healers must do something to earn their keep, apart from wearying us with the lists of things that they do not know."

The Healers' Assistant returned with a chair for Prince Imrahil, and fled again after making the announcement that Healers were on their way to dress my wounds. I was of more than half a mind to send the Healers packing again as soon as they arrived, for they assuredly had more pressing work to do than cleaning my scrapes. But that, I thought, would just get my father and me into one enormous shouting match, and it really was not worth the bother.

As we sat there in silence, my father dabbing the sweat from Faramir's face, the memory struck me of him doing the same thing at my mother's bedside. I did not look over at my Uncle Imrahil, but I would have been willing to wager that he was recalling the same scene.

_What will Father do_, I wondered, _if – if, not when – Faramir dies_?

I thought of the number of times that I had demanded of my father whether he loved Faramir, and if he did, when he was going to show it. Now I thought that it would be better if he never showed it at all, than if his love were to lead him into a decline like the one he had suffered when our mother died – and apparently, when I died, as well.

Faramir would be glad for some proof of our father's love, but that manner of proof, I thought, he would rather do without.

My reflections were interrupted by Éomer and Mithrandir, stepping quietly into the room. The Horselord still looked upon the brink of tears, but he seemed, at least, calmer than when we had parted from him. Mithrandir remained near the door, while Éomer crossed to my father, bowed, and inquired after Faramir's health.

While the Steward and Rohan's King exchanged quiet-voiced wishes for the swift recovery of each others' relatives, a small procession of one of the Healers, the Dame of the Household, and two frightened-looking assistants trooped into the room to see to my leg. In the hope of averting another burst of wrath from my father, I submitted to having the leather of my breeches cut away from the area of the wound, and the wound washed out, daubed with unguents, and bound.

Again Éomer departed, saying that he would sit with his sister for some time more and then go to the Houses of the Dead to stand vigil over Théoden King.

The quiet of the room was little disturbed by the few, low voiced words of the Healers amongst themselves as they completed the binding of my wound. But as the Dame of the Household cut off the extra fabric from the bandage and the two assistants gathered up once more their kettle of boiled water and chests of bandages and ointments, my father's voice sliced sharply over the quiet murmur of their work.

"You are crying, woman," he said. "Is there aught in the condition of the Lord Boromir's wound to cause you any grief?"

"No – no, My Lord," the Dame of the Household said hastily, wiping her face and casting me a brief attempt at a smile. "Lord Boromir should be in no danger. I was crying for – for the Lord Faramir, My Lord."

My father's knifelike gaze kept the Dame pinned for a moment longer, then he heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair. "He needs stronger medicine than tears," my father said. "It seems that we have none even in this ancient seat of learning who can provide it, and he is like to perish from its lack."

"Yes, My Lord," the Dame said helplessly, her voice on the last word breaking on a sob.

I jumped up to urge the woman from the room, for I knew of old that my father had little patience for sobbing servants about him. But as I began, "Thank you, all of you, you may go now," the Dame burst out, "Would that there were kings in Gondor, as there were once upon a time! Isn't it said in the old lore, _the hands of the King are the hands of a healer_, and so the rightful King could ever be known? Why cannot we live in those days, My Lord?"

Anger leapt in my father's gaze. Then a bitter smile succeeded that first spark of ire. "It is not given to any of us to choose our days, Dame Ioreth," the Steward observed. "Nor does it serve any purpose for us to lament the days to which we are born. If your work is done, then get you hence. We have no shortage of wounded in the City this night."

Belatedly I recalled that Svip had been wounded at the same time as I – though the circumstances of our wounding, I still could not remember. I requested that the Healer's party visit Merry's room and tend to Svip's wound as well. With fervent promises that they would do as I commanded, Dame Ioreth and the others curtsied, bowed, and took a rapid departure.

My father watched them leave. His smile grew more bitter still as his gaze settled on Mithrandir, where the Wizard stood beside the door. Malice dripping from his words, the Lord Steward inquired, "Was it you, Lord Stormcrow, who paid the woman to utter that remark?"

Mithrandir's burning gaze met my father's and held it. In a quiet voice, the Wizard said, "Perhaps the remark came not from money, My Lord Denethor, but from honest grief and love."

"Aye, perhaps," my father sneered, "and perhaps it is only coincidence that the remark is made whilst your friend the Captain of the Rangers cools his heels at our doorstep."

"Sirs," my uncle Imrahil broke in impatiently, speaking for the first time since we had joined my father in his vigil. "None of this wrangling will be of any help to Faramir."

"No," rejoined my father, "nothing will be of help to him, since our wisest Healers and even the great Mithrandir are helpless before this malady. Or _is_ the great Mithrandir so helpless?" The Steward rose slowly from his chair, glaring at the Wizard in abhorrence. "Perhaps you know very well how to heal him, but you will not do it. Perhaps, great Wizard, this was your plan all along. The Steward's son is like to die, why, how convenient, it just so happens that we have a would-be king camped out at the White Tree Inn. We send for him, he mumbles a magic spell or two and the Steward's son awakes, and oh, how marvellous, he must be the King, let us crown him tomorrow, no need for him to go through any tedious process of proving his claim before the Council after so obvious a miracle!"

The anger that washed over Mithrandir's face was so great, I thought that the argument might even come to blows. Imrahil must have thought the same. He stepped swiftly to Mithrandir's side and took hold of the Wizard's arm, whilst I hastened to the foot of the bed and planted myself between Wizard and Steward.

"Father; Mithrandir;" I snapped, "you have said more than enough. Mithrandir, perhaps you should check on how Merry is doing."

The Wizard ignored that suggestion. Fixing my father with a gaze that would have made a lesser Man squirm, he said, "You may think and say what you please of me, Lord Denethor. But Aragorn does not deserve your hatred, no more now than he ever did."

"Why," replied my father in feigned surprise, "is not hatred deserved for one who tries to worm his way into power with a show of mummery aimed to prove him as a king out of legend?"

"Father!" I shouted. And then, although I knew that my next words were more than likely to earn me a paternal slap across the face, I asked, "What can it hurt to try it?"

The Lord Steward turned on me his look that would freeze fire. "I beg your pardon, Boromir?"

"What can it hurt to try it?" I insisted. "Send for Aragorn. King out of legend or no, I know that he has great skills of healing, that they say he learned from the Elves of Imladris. Why should not they have healing lore preserved in their records that has been lost to us? Let him try, My Lord, if he will. Even if he heals Faramir, he will still have to argue his claim before the Council, and submit to their judgement. We have nothing to lose, My Lord; send for him!"

"Great skills of healing, has he?" my father quoted sneeringly. "And what proof have you of these skills? What miracles of healing have you seen him accomplish?"

I clenched my fists, arguing with myself that I had never raised my hand against my father, and I did not intend to start now. "None that I have seen myself, sir," I grated. "But he healed the Hobbit Frodo on their journey to Imladris, when the Hobbit was run through with a Morgul blade –"

"They _told_ you he healed the Hobbit Frodo, whom they _told_ you was run through with a Morgul blade. By the Valar, Boromir! It is a cruel curse to have sired a gullible fool!"

"Gullible fool I may be, but I would not have my brother die because I dared not take the risk of being thought foolish!"

"Silence! Both of you!" yelled Prince Imrahil. "If you must continue this brawling, then take it out of Faramir's room and into the street where it belongs!"

"Why?" my father shot back. "Do you think it likely to disturb Faramir's slumbers?"

For an instant I wondered if it would be Imrahil, after all, who turned this into a fistfight. "Right," he managed, forcing out the words as if they were choking him, "right. You may go to blazes, Denethor. But it is a bitter shame that you will take Faramir with you."

With that, my uncle brushed past Mithrandir and stalked out of the room.

My father and I were left glowering at each other. I looked over at Faramir, and felt my anger drain from me in desperation and grief.

"Send for him, Father," I pleaded. "I have no more liking for Aragorn than you have" – that was stretching the point a bit, but I thought it might well advance my cause – "but I cannot think of living with the knowledge that Faramir died and we failed to try an option that might have saved him."

My father gazed at me as though he would read my soul. "You would trust your brother's life to that mountebank?" he demanded at last.

"What does it matter?" I exclaimed. "My brother's life is like to be lost already! I do not see how the Ranger can make things worse! Can we ignore the chance that he might be able to save him?"

For another unending moment my father stared at me. Then he said, in a bitter, furious whisper, "It is on your head, Boromir. The decision is yours, and the responsibility. Send for him if you will. And if he kills your brother, remember that it was you who summoned him."

I should have left it at that, but his words sent anger slicing through me once more. "Ah, I see, sir!" I laughed. "If he saves Faramir, then you will take the credit for being so magnanimous as to allow Lord Aragorn to enter the City. And if Faramir dies, you will blame me for trusting his life to a wandering charlatan!"

"I wish nothing to do with him," the Steward hissed. "Credit or blame, both are yours. But mark this – you also, Lord Mithrandir. If he tends Faramir and Faramir dies, your precious puppet king will not live to state his claim to the Council!"

My father turned and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him with a force that seemed it should shake the entire Sixth Level.

For a moment I closed my eyes. The room seemed unnaturally silent in the sudden absence of shouting.

"I am sorry, Mithrandir," I sighed, opening my eyes to meet the Wizard's sorrowful gaze. "Much was spoken that should not have been. My father is … overwrought by his grief."

"_I_ am sorry, Boromir," Mithrandir answered quietly. "I am sorry for … all of this. For all that has led all of us to this place. And yet I cannot see what other roads could have been followed."

"Will you go to Aragorn?" I asked. "Go to him and bring him here, if he will come. Ask him, from me, to do what he can for Faramir – and for the others," I added, guiltily recalling that my brother was not alone in falling victim to the Black Sleep.

"I will go to him," the Wizard promised. "And he will come."

I was left alone with my unconscious brother. I crossed to the chair that my father had occupied, retrieved the damp cloth from where he had flung it at the foot of the bed, and took up the duty of wiping Faramir's face.

Bitterly I wondered if these ministrations were doing him any good at all. The sweat and the water both seemed powerless to quench the burning heat of his skin.

I winced, asking myself what manner of dreams he might be suffering in this fever's grip.

_Like as not_, I tried to comfort myself, _his dreams are not any worse now than they are at any normal time. I certainly do not see how they could get much worse_.

But my mind answered, _They can always get worse_. _And there is nothing that you can do to stop them_.

His breathing was so shallow that I could scarcely hear or see it. The thought came to me that if I were standing any distance away from the bed, I would not even be able to tell when his breathing ceased.

My imagination conjured a nightmare picture of me continuing to sit there, stroking his forehead, long after he was dead. Perhaps I would not even realise that he was gone, until his burning skin at last began to grow cold.

_Plague take you, Boromir,_ _stop it_! I snarled to myself. _Faramir is the one who has nightmares, not you. It is your job to make the nightmares go away_.

_How_? I wondered desperately. _How can I make them go away, if he cannot awake and tell me of them_?

"Faramir," I said, "Mithrandir is bringing a friend to help you. They will be here soon. It will be all right."

Of a sudden I felt a surge of understanding and sympathy for our father. Sitting there where he had been sitting, dabbing at Faramir's face in the useless attempt to break through the fever that held him, I felt the urge to do just as my father had done – to summon the Healers, yell at them, tear them apart for not knowing how to help Faramir. I wanted every last member of their staff to labour around the clock on Faramir's behalf, wanted them to ignore every other patient they had and perform whatever miracles were required to save my brother's life.

_But perhaps there is to be no miracle_, my mind whispered. _Perhaps even then, Faramir would not be saved; and countless others would be lost who need not have been_.

I heard the door open, and turned to see Uncle Imrahil step into the room. With an expression part of concern and part of embarrassment, he took up one of the chairs and moved it around the bed to set it beside mine.

"How is he doing?" the Prince asked quietly as he sat down.

"The same," I murmured. "Still burning in this fever."

I glanced over at my uncle, and had to smile a little at the look on his face, grim but yet somehow sheepish. "Where have you been?" I whispered. "Somewhere beating your head against a wall?"

He grimaced. "I feel like it," he muttered. "No. I've just done a couple of rounds of pacing the gardens of the Houses, kicking all the pebbles on the path and wishing they were my brother-in-law."

A snort of laughter escaped me before I could restrain myself. My uncle heaved a sigh and went on, "Boromir, I apologise for my behaviour just now. It was uncalled-for."

I looked at him in surprise. "_You_ apologise for your behaviour! Believe me, Uncle, your behaviour was nothing for which to apologise."

He shook his head. "I should have kept my temper under closer control." With a faint, rueful smile, he pointed out, "I ought to be used to your father by now."

"So should I," I said. "Sometimes I think that being used to him does not help."

Briefly I told Imrahil what had passed after he left; of my father's departure and of Mithrandir's mission to fetch Aragorn.

His expression thoughtful, Imrahil said, "I'm surprised that your father would even allow you to summon him. I'd have thought the Lord Steward more likely to post the entire army at the Gate, to prevent Lord Aragorn's setting foot within."

"But Father does love Faramir," I argued. "Perhaps he hopes that Aragorn can save him, but he is too proud to admit holding such a hope himself."

"Perhaps." Imrahil looked far from convinced. The Prince's troubled frown made me think that he might be pondering whatever past encounter had taken place between the Steward and Aragorn, and it caused me to hope that he could be persuaded to speak of it.

"Uncle," I asked, "what is it that has passed between Aragorn and my father? When and how have they encountered each other? I must know, if I am to be of any use in what lies ahead. I will be as a Man blindfolded as I try to help my father steer Gondor through the rocks, if I am still fighting to make sense out of meaningful glares, half truths and insinuations."

Imrahil hesitated, then he shook his head. "I am sorry, Boromir. It is your father's place to tell you of it, not mine. Your father's or the Lord Aragorn's."

"Then you condemn me to ask Father about it," I sighed, only slightly exaggerating the grimness I felt at that prospect, "for I would not summon his ire by hearing Aragorn's version of it before I hear his. Not," I admitted, "that that is likely to do me much good. Father is like to accuse me of plotting with Aragorn to ease his way to the throne, no matter what I do."

For a time we sat in silence. My thoughts turned from my father, Aragorn, and whatever lay between them, and back to my brother.

Again and again, the questions began to creep into my mind of what I would do, and what Father would do, if Faramir died.

I had confronted such thoughts before, but always I had shied from them, told myself that I would not think of it unless the time came when I had no other choice. The thought of life without my brother as part of it was a darkness that I had never truly faced.

_And I will not face it now_, I told myself. _I will not think of it; it will not happen. Aragorn will save him_.

_But what if he does not_?

At last I thought that if I did not do _something_, I would soon be gibbering with fear. I asked my uncle, "Will you stay with him? I should visit the Lady Éowyn, and Merry, and let those who tend them know that Aragorn has been summoned."

Éomer King sat at his sister's bedside, with one of her hands held in his. He fought bravely to keep his voice steady as he greeted me, but I could guess only too well at the desperate dread that he felt, the same fear as my own.

The Lady Éowyn's pallor seemed, if anything, even more startling than Faramir's. Her golden hair and waxen skin seemed that of an effigy, not of any living being. Like Faramir, the lady seemed hardly to breathe.

"Is she feverish?" I asked of Éomer, in a whisper – though why we whispered, I could scarcely say, since as my father had pointed out, even shouting at the tops of our lungs did nothing to wake these sufferers.

"I do not think so," Éomer whispered back. "Her skin is cold – so cold, that I keep asking myself if she lives. Only her breath is still warm – and I keep watching for it to cease."

A glimmer of hope came to Éomer's eyes as I told him that Aragorn had been sent for, and spoke of the reports I had heard of the Ranger's healing skills.

"Aye," murmured Éomer, nodding slowly, "I can well believe that Lord Aragorn would have such skill. Already I have seen him accomplish more than mortal Man should have been able to achieve."

I felt an unworthy twinge of jealousy at hearing that simple statement from Éomer. Firmly I ordered myself to squelch that feeling. I told myself, _Aragorn is a warrior of formidable skills, and perhaps he is, indeed, a Man whose fate has marked him for greatness. To resent that, would only diminish you, not him. And we have enough complexities to navigate in your father's hatred of him, without having to throw in yours into the bargain. _

Bidding Éomer to hold to his hope, I went to look in on the Hobbits and Svip.

Poor Merry seemed pathetically tiny lying in that bed, as though he were lost adrift on a great sea of pillows and sheets. Pippin and Svip both were seated cross-legged on the bed, Pippin holding Merry's hand and Svip quietly talking. From the sound of it as I stepped into the room, Svip was telling Pippin the story of our escape from the flood at Lilla Howe.

Svip eyed me with curiosity and some concern when I told of Aragorn's summoning. I suppose the water creature had realised somewhere along the line that I was not entirely pleased at the Ranger Chieftain's presence in our realm. Pippin, on the other hand, grinned in pure delight, and was hard-pressed to keep his voice under the restraints normally demanded in a sick-room.

"Strider!" Pippin whispered. "How splendid! Do you know, Boromir, I guessed it was him in those black ships, when everyone was shouting 'Corsairs' and they wouldn't listen to me. We could see the ships from the windows in the corridor, and all of the Healers were running around like chickens and for a while they wouldn't stop to listen to anyone, even when one of the girls started shouting that the first ship bore the flag of Gondor. How did Strider do it; how did he get the ships from the pirates?"

"I don't know, Pippin," I said. "You will have to get him to tell you and Merry the story, over a few pints."

Pippin nodded, trying to keep hold of his cheerful expression. But his smile wavered as he turned and looked at Merry's motionless face.

I left my small friends with a few more words of encouragement, and walked into the hallway once more. There I paced back to Faramir's room. But cowardly though I knew it to be, I stopped without going inside.

_You have got to go to him_, I told myself. _If he dies while you are malingering out here in the corridor, you know that you will never forgive yourself_.

_And what does it matter if you are in there with him_? my thoughts snapped back at me._ In the hallway or at his bedside, there is nothing you can do to help him._

_There is nothing you can do_.

All of his life, I had tried to protect him. I knew very well that he was a Man grown, with his own risks to take and with the courage, intelligence and skill to protect himself. I knew that my wish to keep him away from harm was nothing I could ever achieve – and that he would groan and would have a few sharp words for me, if ever he heard me speak of it.

But that did not change the fact that from my first memories of him, I had wanted, more than anything else, to keep him safe.

I stared at the door to his room. Instead of seeing it, I saw the scene of my earliest clear memory of Faramir.

It was an afternoon in winter; I remember the weak, pale light of the winter sun struggling through the windows, and the fire blazing upon the hearth. Faramir had just learned to crawl, and I had the duty and honour of minding him. At least, so my memory presented it to me. I doubt not that in fact our nurse was near at hand, ready to swoop down and rescue both of us should any peril seem imminent. But to my five-year-old eyes, that afternoon the all-important duty of looking after my baby brother had been assigned to me.

He was delighted with crawling, and seemed determined to crawl over every inch of the floor. I had started out by running after him, but then decided that it would be much more practical just to crawl after him instead. We crawled under tables and chairs, over carpets and flagstones. But one spot that Faramir seemed particularly determined to investigate, was the fireplace.

Over and over he would crawl toward the hearth, smiling in seeming wonder as he trundled toward the bright, crackling flames. Over and over I would crawl faster and outflank him, turn him around, and send him crawling away from the fireplace again. But always he would find his way back, the chubby little baby with his shock of black hair and his lacy white dress, looking fearless and fascinated as he crawled toward the fire.

I think at last he fell asleep, and I was relieved of my duty of guarding him – just in time, in all likelihood, for my own nap.

But, I thought, that duty was one that I had never truly given up, from that moment until this.

_All of his life_, I thought, _I have tried to keep Faramir out of the fire. And now, at last, I have failed_.

Footsteps along the corridor roused me from my bitter reverie. I looked up to see Mithrandir and Aragorn. The Ranger had doffed the star he had worn upon his brow during the battle, and he walked beside the Wizard like a grey shadow wrapped in his Elven cloak.

"Boromir," said Aragorn, hurrying to me in concern and placing a hand on my arm. "I hope Lord Faramir is no worse?"

"I do not believe so," I said, hastily trying to blink from my eyes the tears that I had not realised had gathered there. "I thank you for coming, Aragorn."

Frowning, he murmured, "There will be time enough to thank me when I have been of use."

In close succession, Aragorn and Mithrandir went first to Faramir, then to the Lady Éowyn and to Merry. Aragorn said little as he touched Faramir's face, examined his arrow wound, and heard from Prince Imrahil the story of Faramir's wounding. When the Ranger and the Wizard went to their other patients, Imrahil and I stayed with Faramir, barely looking at each other, that we might avoid confronting the fear on each other's faces.

It was not long, I suppose, before Aragorn and Mithrandir returned, but it seemed one of the most interminable waits of my life. In the corridor outside Faramir's room, we heard the voices of Aragorn and Mithrandir, at least one other Man, and a woman, raised in argument or something akin to it. At last Aragorn and the Wizard stepped back into the room, Aragorn shaking his head in anger and Mithrandir red in the face as though he were likely to burst from indignation.

Aragorn muttered to the Wizard, "I hope there is someone in this House with less lore and more sense, who can find for us _athelas_ without needing to look it up in every healing treatise before he brings it!"

"If there be none in the House," Mithrandir vowed grimly, "I will ride to the woods of Lossarnach with Ioreth to fetch it, and Shadowfax will show her the meaning of haste."

Anger gave way to sorrow and weariness in Aragorn's face as he gazed on Faramir once more. He sighed and said, "Here I must put forth all such power and skill as is given to me. Would that Elrond were here, for he is the eldest of all our race, and has the greater power."

Aragorn crossed to the head of the bed. I stood as he approached, and though panic screamed in my mind as I spoke the words, I asked, "Will you not tend to the Lady Éowyn first? Faramir would not wish her placed in any greater peril by the delay, should you tend to his hurts before hers."

The Northman gave a melancholy smile. "No, Boromir. Most soon for Faramir, time is running out."

Surprised that my voice remained steady, I offered Aragorn my chair by Faramir's side. Solemnly, he declined, and instead he knelt by the bedside, holding a hand upon Faramir's brow.

In silence, the others of us watched; Mithrandir by the foot of the bed, Imrahil by the window, I standing gripping the back of the chair, as though some great calamity would befall should I let it go.

Aragorn kept his hand on Faramir's forehead, and as we waited and watched, it seemed as though the colour drained slowly from Aragorn's face, leaving it grey with weariness. Now and again he spoke Faramir's name, but each time the name seemed to come more faintly to my hearing, as if Aragorn himself were moving farther and farther away from us.

Dame Ioreth and two of the assistants entered hurriedly, bearing bowls of hot water. One of these, Mithrandir grabbed from Ioreth, and he bade them take the other bowls to the rooms of Éowyn and Merry.

Of none of this did Aragorn take any heed. Only when another young Healers' Assistant came running into the room, gasping for breath in her haste, did Aragorn seem to return to the room around us.

"Here is kingsfoil, sir," said the girl, holding out a handkerchief from which protruded a handful of dark, dried leaves. "It is not fresh as you asked; it is two weeks old at the least. Will it still serve, My Lord?"

Aragorn smiled. "It will serve," he said. "The worst is past." He took two of the leaves from the girl, blew softly upon them and then crushed them in his hands. Calling for Mithrandir to bring the bowl of steaming water to him, Aragorn cast the crushed leaves into the bowl, and held it close by Faramir's face.

The smell of the leaves spread through the room, putting me in mind of the forests of Ithilien. The thought came to me that perhaps that would bring Faramir back to us, even if nothing else could: the hope that if he lived, he might someday walk in the Ithilien woods again.

On Aragorn's request, Gandalf took the bowl of herbs from him and set it down on a table near the door. Aragorn again put his hand on Faramir's brow, and softly called his name.

Of a sudden, Faramir's breathing changed. From being so shallow as to be all but inaudible, it took on the cadence of normal sleep, even and plain to hear.

I felt nigh as though my own breathing ceased. I stared at my sleeping brother, and at the Ranger of the North who knelt at his bedside.

For a moment more, we waited. And then with a simple ease that seemed to wipe out all memories of dread and despair, Faramir opened his eyes.

I heard myself gasp in a breath, gripping the back of the chair as I wondered if I could believe the evidence of my sight.

Faramir seemed fully awake in that first instant, his gaze as clear-sighted and thoughtful as ever. He studied Aragorn's face, and then with a faint smile he murmured, "My Lord, you called me. I am here. What does the King command?"

I will not deny that I felt a twinge of foreboding in the midst of my joy, as the thought struck me of how Father would react when he heard of Faramir acknowledging the claim of the would-be king. But still my heart soared. As I smiled in wonder, I realised that my face was damp with tears.

Aragorn said softly, "Walk no more in shadows, but awake. You are weary. Rest a while, Son of Gondor, and take food. Regain your strength, that you may be well and whole again, to answer your country's call."

"I will, My Lord." Faramir blinked for a moment in the sort of disorientated exhaustion that one might have expected to see when first he awoke, then he turned his head on the pillow until his gaze lit on me.

"Hello, Troll," my brother whispered. "You're still alive."

"Hello, Halfling," I answered him. "So are you."

Now I truly knew, if any more proof were needed, that Faramir had hovered upon the door of death. It was decades since we had used those childhood nicknames for each other, save in written birthday greetings, or when sorely wounded or ill to the point of delirium.

Aragorn stood up and stepped away from Faramir. Pulling the chair closer to the bed, I sat and reached out to take Faramir's hand.

Wonder swept me anew as I grasped his hand, for his skin seemed to hold no trace of fever. I ran the fingers of my other hand over his forehead, and found it as cool to the touch as though his fever had never been.

As I smiled at my brother, one of my tears rolled free to land on his hand. He smiled back at me, the whisper-faint grasp of his fingers gaining strength as they tightened around mine.

"My Lord Boromir," came Aragorn's quiet tones, "I must go to the others. The Lord your brother is well enough, I think, that you may speak with him for some little while. But he still needs much rest. The more rest he has now, the more swiftly his strength will be restored."

"I understand." I had barely glanced at Aragorn since Faramir first spoke to me, but I knew that I must speak some word of gratitude before he left Faramir's room, if I wished not to appear as a supremely ungrateful churl. I looked up at him, and saw him watching us with a sort of wistful half-smile.

"My Lord, I thank you," I said.

Aragorn nodded once, his smile seeming to become more heart-felt. Then he turned and strode from the room, with Mithrandir close behind him. Uncle Imrahil bowed low to Aragorn and the Wizard as they departed, then he grabbed the chair at the other side of the bed, dragged it closer and sat down.

"Uncle," Faramir breathed, managing to weakly raise his other hand a few inches from the bed. Imrahil took his hand and moved it back down to rest on Faramir's chest.

"You had us worried, Nephew," our uncle said gently, affection writ plain on his face and in his tone.

"Worried!" I echoed. "You had me terrified, little brother. Don't ever do that again."

Faramir rejoined, with a good deal of spirit, despite the faintness of his voice, "Not any more terrified than you had me, when you were dead. I won't do it again, if you won't."

"Fair enough," I grinned.

The Healers' Assistant had been lingering by the doorway, watching the scene with eyes wide with awe. She asked now if we required anything else, and when I thanked her and told her no, she curtsied low and then left the room almost at a run.

I smiled, wondering just how swiftly the news of Faramir's recovery would spread through the Houses of Healing.

A frown touched Faramir's brow, as he gazed around the room as though seeking for one who was not there.

"What's happened?" Faramir murmured. "How long have I been here? Are we besieged? Where's Father? Is he all right?"

"Father is unharmed," I said. Angrily I wished that our father had seen fit to be here when Faramir awoke. But then again, I did not, for like as not, he would say something snide and uncalled-for in the midst of welcoming Faramir back, and I did not want my brother having to gird himself for an encounter with the Lord Steward just yet.

Uncle Imrahil put in, "It has been two days since you were wounded. Minas Tirith has been besieged, and the siege is broken."

Faramir's brows drew together again. "How …?" he began. "The King – I mean…"

"The Lord Aragorn," Imrahil said quietly.

"The Lord Aragorn," Faramir repeated. "How did he – how did he get here? How was the siege broken? Tell me everything!"

"All right, all right!" I chided. "We're going to. You're supposed to be getting your rest, remember?"

"I'll rest while you tell me."

So we told him. Taking turns in recounting the portions of the battle in which we had played a part, Uncle Imrahil and I gave Faramir a brief account of the siege and the battle that followed.

I hesitated a moment as I wondered if we would do better not yet to break the news of Théoden King's death. But Faramir, I knew, would not thank us for keeping him in the dark. The news would bring grief to him, no matter when he heard it.

Trouble darkened Faramir's gaze as Imrahil and I told what we knew of Théoden's passing. Briefly Faramir tried to sit up, but his muscles refused to obey him. Nor would Imrahil or I have permitted him to stay sitting for long, even had he managed it.

Faramir asked what arrangements had been made, and I told him of our father's order that Théoden King lie in state in the House of the Stewards.

"Éomer and his swordthains will be standing vigil over him tonight," I said. "I plan on joining them soon, and giving at least an hour or two to the vigil – and no, don't even think of saying that you'll stand vigil, too. They will understand that you are in no condition to be present. My presence will serve for us both."

With an effort, Faramir nodded. "Don't worry," he whispered, "I wasn't going to try it. I don't think I'd be able to stand up long enough to bother."

We continued our tale of the battle, I swiftly glossing over the segments of the combat of which my memory was missing. Faramir knew well enough that there was something about this, that I was not telling him. But though he frowned, he did not attempt to quiz me on it.

It was only a temporary reprieve, I knew. When his strength returned, he would get the story out of me, and he would then give me hell for taking such risks with my health – though I thought that I had a good argument this time, since I couldn't very well have made it to the River much sooner, with the Hosts of Mordor between me and the water.

Faramir listened closely to most of the tale. But when we had told of Aragorn's arrival, and Imrahil was giving his account of the skirmishes in which he, my father and the cavalry had engaged near the close of the day, my brother's eyelids gradually drifted closed.

Imrahil ceased his recital, smiling fondly at his sleeping nephew. I carefully extracted my hand from Faramir's, and stood, whereupon Faramir immediately opened his eyes.

"Go on," he insisted, "I'm listening."

"In your sleep?" I asked. "Don't worry, little brother. We will tell you the rest tomorrow." As much to Imrahil as to Faramir, I said, "I will go check in on Lady Éowyn and the Hobbits. Then I will pay my respects to Théoden King."

The Prince nodded. "I will stay here – at least until Faramir accepts that he has fallen asleep."

Taking Faramir's hand once more, I told him, "I'll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, do you hear me? No dreams."

He smiled faintly. "Don't worry," he murmured. "No dreams."

I had no need to set foot in the Lady Éowyn's room, to learn what had transpired there. The moment I stepped into the corridor I found myself in a maelstrom of excitedly talking Healers and Assistants, the Chief Healer himself standing outside Éowyn's door and rather overwhelmedly attempting to quiet his people.

Smiling and nodding in reply to myriad congratulations and good wishes for my brother's health, I made my way through the crowd to the Chief Healer's side.

"The Lady Éowyn is recovered, then?" I asked of the harried-looking Man.

Dame Ioreth, standing nearby, began to chatter a reply. The Chief Healer glared at her and managed to talk over her until she subsided.

"Recovered, My Lord?" he repeated. "As to that, I do not know. But she is awake, which is success more than any of the rest of us achieved. Who is this Ranger of the North, Lord Boromir, and how has he acquired such skills of healing?"

"Who is he?" Dame Ioreth sallied into the discussion again. "Why, have you not heard, sir, that he sailed into the Harlond under the banner of Gondor's King? And who else should he be but the King himself, when the mere touch of his hand is enough to heal those of whose lives all others despaired –"

"Take advice that is friendly meant, Dame Ioreth," I cut in, "and speak not of kings until such time as the Council may decree that he is King indeed. Until that time, if that time comes, he is Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, neither more nor less. The Lord Steward will not take kindly to all and sundry chattering of kings."

"No, My Lord," agreed Ioreth, lowering her eyes and looking suitably chastened. I wondered how many seconds she would wait after I was out of earshot, before once more taking up her talk of the King and his healing hands.

I was about to ask the Chief Healer if Aragorn were now with Merry, when Aragorn himself stepped out from Merry's room. Mithrandir followed close behind him, softly shutting the door.

Aragorn paused to lean against the wall, the clusters of Healers and Assistants more or less falling silent as they turned to stare at him in awe. There was a ghastly, greyish hue to the Northman's face, worse by far, it seemed, than when he had knelt by Faramir's bedside, calling his name. I supposed that was to be expected, if Aragorn had now gone through that same process twice more.

His hideous pallor notwithstanding, Aragorn smiled as he stood there, his gaze distant as though he were seeing, once more, some beautiful sight that he had glimpsed before only in dreams.

I crossed to the Ranger and the Wizard, with the Chief Healer trailing behind me.

"Will you be all right, Aragorn?" I asked, reaching out to tentatively touch his shoulder. "You look – forgive me for using the expression, but you look like death."

He blinked and slowly dragged his attention back into our world. "I will be fine," he murmured. "Thank you. I am – only a little tired."

The thought crossed my mind, _I would hate to see you when you are very tired, then_, but I made no such comment. Instead I asked him, "How is Merry?"

Some sparkle of life and amusement returned to Aragorn's face. "He will do very well. Already he has remarked upon how hungry he is, and he is asking Pippin for his pipe."

The Chief Healer observed, nodding thoughtfully, "They are a remarkable race, these _Perians_. Very tough in the fibre, I deem."

"It is likely that he will be fit to arise tomorrow, for a short while," Aragorn continued. "Let him do so, if he wishes. He may walk a little in the care of his friends."

"What of Faramir and the Lady Éowyn?" I inquired. "Would you give the same advice concerning them?"

A slight frown crossed Aragorn's brow. "I would not, but I know it will be no easy task to make either of them keep to their beds." He said to the Healer, "The Lady Éowyn will wish soon to rise and depart; but she should not be permitted to do so, if you can in any way restrain her, until at least ten days be passed. As for the Lord Faramir, my recommendation is the same for him – but I know how little chance there is that he will be prevailed upon to obey it."

"As little chance with the lady," I remarked, "if she shares in the stubbornness prevalent among her kin."

Aragorn and Mithrandir both nodded solemnly. For a moment we stood without speaking.

I knew very well what I must ask of Aragorn next. Yet I demanded of myself if I had indeed the right to ask it; if after the strain that he had already put himself through for us, I could ask yet more of him.

Right or no right, I had no choice but to ask.

"Aragorn –" I began, "you have done more already for our people than Gondor has power to thank you for. But forgive me, I must ask more. Is there a chance that you can do for the others in this House what you have done for Faramir, the lady, and Merry? All of the patients here, I believe, lie under this black sleep; those who did not, were moved to other locations in the fear that the sleep might spread to them." I glanced at the Chief Healer, who nodded in confirmation of my words. I went on, "Many have been in the clutches of this curse for days; some of them for days before Faramir was struck down – though I do not know if any of those yet survive."

The Ranger Chieftain nodded. "I will go to them," he said. "But I would ask first a boon of the Warden of the Houses: some food, if there be any swiftly to hand."

The Chief Healer nodded eagerly. "Of course, My Lord! You will have the best that our kitchens can provide."

"The best will not be necessary, but rather the swiftest. I have not eaten since the dark before dawn, nor should the sufferers in this House wait while I sit down to banquet."

The Healer turned and snapped out orders to the ever-present Dame Ioreth, who had sidled her way near us that she might catch the words of the legendary King. The woman cast a beaming smile at Aragorn and bustled away.

"What of the _athelas_?" put in Mithrandir impatiently. "The kingsfoil? Was that which the girl brought all there was to be had in this House?"

"I fear that it was," the Chief Healer answered, frowning. "But I will set our people to searching on every shelf of every cupboard. If there be any other here, we shall find it."

"There is like to be more in the City," I pointed out. "I have heard of folk using it to drive away moths, or to freshen stale air in their houses. If you think it needful in healing these people, I will dispatch a detachment of the Guard to search the City and inquire for it in every house."

"I thank you, Boromir," Aragorn said, nodding briskly. Hope seemed to spread upon his face, where before there had been weariness and determination only. "I think it needful indeed."

The Chief Healer bowed to us and moved off to restore some order among his people and to set them hunting for kingsfoil. As the Healer moved out of hearing, Aragorn said to me in a lower tone, "I do not wish to place you in a difficult position with the Lord your father. But if you feel that you can give your permission for it, I would send for two who have journeyed and fought at my side: Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of the Lord Elrond. Their father taught them the arts of healing even as he taught me; together we may succeed in saving far more than did I labour alone."

I nodded, wondering in surprise if I had seen the two Elven lords amongst Aragorn's retinue on the battlefield. If I had, I had certainly not recognised them. Though I supposed that was not too startling, removed as their setting now was from the moonlight, singing and poetry contests of Elrond's court.

What was more startling, I thought, was that Elves would bother to fight alongside us at all – although, to be sure, Legolas had bothered. And it was assuredly not for us that the Elven brothers were fighting, I reminded myself, but rather for Aragorn.

"I will give my permission, of course," I said, "though I do not see that my permission is needed. You heard my father welcome you and all of your company into the City. The welcome he extended to all of your troops, he would certainly extend to two who may be able to save the lives of our Men. But yes, use my authority if you wish; I have no fear of giving it in this cause."

"I will bring them," Mithrandir said. "It will save time, and Shadowfax has grown used to being our carrier pigeon this night."

As the Wizard hastened away, I said to Aragorn, "I will go and give my best wishes to Merry, if he has not already fallen asleep over his pipeweed. Then I will dispatch the Guard with orders to bring to you any kingsfoil they may discover." For a moment more I hesitated. "Thank you," I said again at last, as I shook hands with the Northman and wished that I could find more eloquent words to express my gratitude.

Aragorn gave a solemn nod. I stepped to Merry's door, rapped softly upon it, and was answered by three voices calling, "Come in."

The sight that greeted me was a welcome change from my previous visit to that room. Merry sat propped up by a multitude of pillows, and sure enough, a tendril of smoke was wafting upward from the pipe he held in his hand. Pippin and Svip were sitting on the bed, Pippin apparently in the midst of showing Svip how to tamp a pipe.

An enormous grin lit up Merry's face, which seemed already to have thrown off all trace of its deathly pallor.

"Boromir!" Merry exclaimed. "I thought I remembered seeing you on the battlefield, in the rain. But it was so like a dream. Are you certain you're real? I don't want to find you disappearing on us, just when we start believing you're really here."

I grinned back at him and sat on the edge of the bed. Svip and Pippin both scooted over to sit closer to me. "I am real enough, Master Meriadoc," I answered, "to choke on that pipeweed of yours befouling the air. So, your brush with death has not cured you of this vile habit?"

The shadow of trouble succeeded Merry's grin. "Well," Merry said sadly, "I thought that I might give it up … now that the King isn't here to smoke with us. But Strider and Pippin talked me out of that."

It took me a moment to realise that by "the King," Merry must mean Théoden, not Aragorn.

I wondered at the stories behind Merry's words. But it was too soon, by far, for me to tax him with asking for those tales. Even a Hobbit's love of story-telling would not outweigh the pain of loss. I could see plainly enough that the death of Théoden King was a wound as deep to him as it was to any of us.

Pippin put in hastily to change the subject, "You are a heathen, Boromir. I've just about given up hope for you, after all our efforts teaching you to appreciate a fine Longbottom Leaf."

"What about you, Svip?" I asked. "Will the Hobbits succeed in making a pipeweed smoker out of you?"

"They will not!" declared the water being. "It smells even worse than when you burned that fish!"

"I didn't burn it, I cooked it." I eyed the bandage around Svip's left upper arm. "How is your wound?" I asked. "Is it giving you any trouble?"

"No," he shrugged, "it isn't anything. I just let the Healers bind it so they would go away again. How's yours?" Svip added.

"It's fine," I answered. "I just let the Healers bind it so my father wouldn't yell at me."

"Really?" asked Merry, taking his pipe from his mouth and looking at me in surprise.

"Wait 'till you meet his father," Pippin advised. "You wouldn't want him to yell at you, either."

I smiled at my three friends, then, reluctantly, I got to my feet. "I can't stay any longer tonight, I'm afraid," I said. "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow, Merry – if the Warden hasn't kicked you out before then, for stinking up his nice clean Houses."

Merry held out his hand to me. I was glad to the depths of my heart that this time, when I grasped his hand, I could feel it.

"I'll stay with Pippin and Merry for a while," Svip said, "if it's all right, if you won't need me – you're not riding anywhere, are you?"

"No, it's all right," I assured him. "I'm not riding anywhere 'till the morning. Don't stay up too late, Svip – you should get some sleep, if you want me to ride you to the Council tomorrow. I don't have to, of course, if you don't want to come along …"

"Of course I want to come along! I'll get some sleep. I'll go to the Fountain soon, I promise."

I left the three of them in that room with its oddly blended perfume of kingsfoil and pipeweed. Swiftly I made my way through the Houses of Healing, the halls suddenly aflurry with life, as folk rushed from room to room on the quest for kingsfoil.

My first stop was a few paces beyond the entrance to the Houses, at the Sixth Level's gate. Here I sought out the Officer of the Guard, and gave him my orders that a detachment should scour the City for any speck of kingsfoil, fresh or dried, and should deliver it to the Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn, in the Houses of Healing.

I hastened on through the gate, scant moments more bringing me to my townhouse.

I'd had no chance to spend any time in the house since my return, nor did I have that leisure now. I strode through the courtyard and the great hall, exchanging nods and greetings with the guards in the courtyard, my servants, and the Healers and wounded Men who'd been evacuated from the Houses of Healing in the hope of shielding them from exposure to the dark sleep.

Gavrilo my seneschal got wind of my presence almost immediately, with that strange omniscience that all good servants possess. He caught up with me in the great hall. Hurrying behind me, he worriedly expressed his hope that I approved of the arrangements he had made for the Healers and their patients, assigning them room in the great hall, the laundry rooms, and the servants' dining hall.

"You have done well, Gavrilo," I assured him, "I have no objections. I must change clothes and pay my respects to Théoden King, in the Mansions of the Dead. Send Balamir to me with my dress helmet and armour." Only in that moment did I recall that I had last seen my young esquire and his sister and cousin on the First Level of the City, volunteering with the fire-fighting corps. I asked, "I trust that Balamir and the girls are returned to the house in safety?"

"Yes, My Lord. They returned a few hours ago, after the rain had quenched the worst of the fires."

In my chamber, I found another of the Orc's Head barrels of river water awaiting me. I gratefully availed myself of this in washing off the worst grime of battle, then I dressed in my most formal tunics and breeches, in the black and silver traditional to our house.

Balamir arrived in haste, bearing my _mithril_ helm and my silver breast-and-back plate embossed on the fore with the emblem of the White Tree. The boy seemed more subdued than his wont, as he fastened the armour's straps on one side and I fastened them upon the other.

I did not marvel at Balamir's uncharacteristic pondering, for his experiences on this day would be the closest he had yet come to actual battle.

As he handed me my helmet, Balamir said, "We lost many Men today, My Lord. Didn't we?"

"We did," I told him quietly. "But we can face the morn with more hope this night, than we could for many a night past."

As the boy gazed trustingly up at me, I sought for some reassurance that I could truthfully give him, something I could say that would lift his spirits without promising any false certainty of ultimate victory.

I said, "The leader of the troops that arrived in the Corsairs' ships is a Healer of great learning; he and several of his captains, also. They are now at the Houses of Healing, labouring to restore our Men who lie in the dark sleep. Their leader has already succeeded in awakening Faramir. It is said that Faramir is out of danger, and I have no doubt that many others will soon be so, as well."

"In truth, My Lord?" Balamir exclaimed. "How wonderful! The whole household will rejoice at this news! May I have your leave to tell it to them?"

"You may," I granted, grinning at the exuberance of his delight. "I thank you and all of the household, for my brother and for myself."

The thought occurred to me that if Balamir was going to be running all over the whole house anyway, we might as well kill two birds with one stone. "That reminds me, Balamir. The foreign healers seek the herb kingsfoil for their work, and there is a shortage of it in the Houses of Healing. I've set the Guards to collecting it throughout the City. Inquire of all the household if we have any kingsfoil about the house, and any that may be found, send it to the Houses of Healing at once."

"I will, My Lord!"

Once more I hastened to the Sixth Level, but this time I bypassed the Houses of Healing. I made my way westward along the street, toward the porter's cottage at Fen Hollen, and the Houses of the Dead beyond.

It seemed a strange pilgrimage for me to be hurrying alone to the Hallows, instead of pacing there slowly in the ranks of a funeral procession. And it was a long time, as well, since I had set foot in the Mansions of the Dead by night.

To be sure, I censured myself, it was probably far longer than it ought to have been since I'd set foot in the Hallows at all, at any hour of the day or night.

Like a wooden dancing figure on some mechanical clock, the porter popped out from his cottage as I approached. The glow of his lantern cast deep, skull-like shadows onto his face.

The porter bowed low to me, and hurried before me to unlock the Closed Door. Silently as ever, the door swung wide.

"I'm glad to see you, Lord Boromir," murmured the porter, with another deep bow.

"I thank you," I told him, restraining the scarcely respectful remark that had leapt into my head. It had been on the tip of my tongue to observe that _I_ was glad he saw me entering the Hallows on my own two feet, rather than being carried there in state.

On an ordinary night, the long stairs leading down to the Silent Street would be unlit. One would need either to bring a lantern of one's own, to take the porter's from him, or to make one's way down by feel or by memory. But this night, the passing of Théoden King was acknowledged even along the curving route of the Road of Stairs. On the looming walls by every third step, a lit torch gleamed.

I reached at last the bottom of the stairs, and set out along the Silent Street. Here, also, torches burnt, glimmering to either side from out of the shadowed porticos of the domed marble halls.

I thought again how strange it seemed to see the Houses of the Dead in this torchlight. Rath Dínen by night was normally lit only by moon, stars and the lights of the City, and peopled only by the occasional stray cat patrolling the silent cobblestones.

I had ventured into the Hallows at night a few times when I was a boy; to prove to myself that I could, and to investigate whether any spirits of the dead might make their appearance here during the hours of darkness. And I had visited the Mansions of the Dead by night more than a few times, five years ago when Théodhild and Findemir were not long in their tomb. On many a sleepless night, my thoughts had driven me from my bed, and had brought me here, where I might be closer to them.

With an unhappy surge of guilt, I thought again of how long it had been since I had made any regular visits to the Hallows.

I had stopped briefly to visit Théodhild and Findemir's tomb, and my mother's, last July before I set forth on my journey to Imladris. But before that?

How long was it since I had visited on the first day of the New Year as I used to, or on the anniversaries of their deaths?

I had the excuse, of course, that over these last few years I had been scarcely ever at home upon the dates in question. But, I told myself, that did not give me any excuse for not visiting at the first opportunity, as soon as I did return home.

_Don't be an ass, Boromir_, I ordered myself. _Do not tear yourself up over this. I am sure that Théodhild, Findemir and your mother all understand_.

_And why are you so sure of that_? my thoughts rejoined. _Will _you_ understand and forgive, when it is your turn to lie among your ancestors, and the visits to your resting place grow farther and farther apart, until they finally stop_?

_I certainly trust_, I argued back, _that there is more to occupy one's thoughts in the afterlife than brooding over the lack of visits to one's tomb_.

My echoing footsteps took me past the dark and silent Mansions of the nobles and Captains of Gondor. At last the House of the Kings loomed before me. And to the left, the multitude of torches giving it more the air of a hall lit for some great feast, stood the House of the Stewards.

I climbed the broad marble stairs. Like carven sentinels, two of the Rohirrim warriors stood guard at either side of the open door. The two Riders bowed to me as I reached the topmost step, and I nodded to them and walked within.

The white banners of our house gleamed golden in the torches' light. I paid little notice this time, as I stepped inside, to the many rows of my ancestors, embalmed forms lying as they had lain for centuries upon their pallid marble beds. Nor did I turn, as I more often did, to the enclosed tombs along the edges of the hall, where lie the women and children of the family of the Stewards.

This time I turned to one of the marble tables on the left, the first in the next row of tables that did not yet hold their permanent occupants. On the stone table where, in all likelihood, my father would someday lie, that night there lay the body of Théoden King of Rohan.

I paused and bowed, before I approached. At the sides and head of that table stood the Riders of Rohan, the gold of their helms and mail and their flaxen hair imparted a barbaric splendour by the torchlight. Scores more of them lined the great chamber's walls, standing like statues between the tombs of the women. Each Rider held his spear in his right hand, but the spears were turned downward, their points planted upon the floor.

As I walked toward the table, Éomer King stepped from his place of guard at the table's head and strode to meet me. We stood a little ways apart, that our words might not intrude upon the fallen king's vigil.

"I thank you for coming, Lord Boromir," Éomer said quietly. "Is the Lord Faramir awakened?"

"He is," I answered. "And I believe that he is well upon the mend. And the Lady your sister? She wakes as well?"

"She does," said Éomer, with a rueful half smile. "And she retains, at least, her pride and her temper as of old, for she cursed bitterly the weakness that would not let her rise from her bed and pay her respects this night to Théoden King. Mithrandir and the Lord Aragorn told me that some shadow may yet lie upon her; but they bade me hope that she will recover in full, now that she has wakened from her slumbers in that cold darkness."

"I rejoice to hear it," I said. "She is a gallant lady and a credit to your house."

"Yes. She is." The Horselord gazed for a moment at the slain king and his silent guards, then he turned back to me. "Will your duties permit you to stand guard with us, My Lord?"

"They will, for a little time at least. I would be honoured to stand with you."

"The honour is ours. Stand by me at the table's head; the place is yours in right, as one who was daughter's-husband to our lord the King."

I bowed, then followed Éomer to his place by Théoden's head.

Lit candles stood at each corner of the table. I glanced at their height and told myself that I would judge, as near as possible, two hours, by my own reckoning and the candles' decrease, before I returned from the Houses of the Dead into the living world.

As Théoden's son-in-law, by rights I should truly stand all the night with his Riders. But other tasks and duties called to me, not least, the need to go to my father, to tell him of Faramir's waking, and, if I could find any possible way of doing so, to prise from him the story of how in blazes he had come to know Aragorn Son of Arathorn.

I gazed at Théoden King, and I had to ask myself if indeed he was dead. _There could be no mistake_? I wondered. _No chance that he lies only in the sleep of the enemy, as did his niece, and Faramir, and Merry, and so many others of our Men_?

A golden cloth was spread over him. His sword, unsheathed, lay upon his breast, and his shield at his feet. His face bore little mark of death, as yet, seeming in very truth more as one who slept. His pure white hair gleamed in the torchlight like sun caught in the spray of the Fountain of the Tree.

Somehow, in death, the King's face appeared younger than I recalled it, all lines of sorrow and pain wiped from it. But the look of peace that lay upon him was what told me that he was dead. For that peace, I thought, was beyond the grasp of any living Man.

The thought sprang to my mind of the last time that Théoden's fate had brought him within these walls, when we laid to rest his daughters and his grandson.

It was an irony of which none of us dreamt on that day, that five years later, Rohan's King would lie in state a few feet only from their tombs.

I thought of the other Lord of Rohan who had stood here with us five years ago, Prince Théodred, who lay now in one of the flower-blanketed Barrows of the Kings in the field of the Golden Hall. And I thought of how very close the royal house of Rohan had come to being wiped out utterly, almost in one single blow.

_We may thank all the gods_, I thought, _that Éomer and Éowyn came through this battle alive. Without them, not one of the House of Eorl would be left_.

_Aye, and then_, came my bitter and hardly respectful thought, _for a thousand or so years, some other noble house would rule in their stead, until a foreign stranger from some distant branch of their line would pop out of the woodwork and demand to be hailed as King_.

I sought to turn my thoughts from that particularly unhelpful course.

I wondered what arrangements Éomer would choose to make for the body of the late King, after this night of vigil. It depended, I supposed, on what course the living Rohirrim chose to follow themselves – and upon the choices made by all of us. If the Rohirrim rode back to their plains in these next days, returning to the defence of their own lands, their army would serve as Théoden's funeral train. But if they stayed here, if they chose to remain with us in defence of Minas Tirith – or indeed, if some plan should be formed to take the battle to the enemy – then they must either send Théoden's body home with a smaller escort, or they must leave the slain King here until such time as his people could return home.

And in that eventuality, I thought, there was little chance that any of them would return to their lands. For what real likelihood was there of our survival, let alone our victory, against the hordes of the Dark Lord?

The army that had near overwhelmed us in the day past, before the Ringwraiths lost their Captain and the Rohirrim and Aragorn's fleet had come to our aid, was, by report, only a miniscule portion of the forces that the Lord of Mordor held in reserve. We would fight, yes, fight to the last Man – but was I not fooling myself, if I clung to the notion that we had any hope of winning?

Stubbornly, I dragged my mind back from its musings of doom. I repeated to myself my father's old adage, _Despair is a luxury that the house of the Stewards cannot afford_.

Once more, I forced my thoughts back onto more practical pathways.

If Théoden's body were to remain here in the plan of eventually taking him back to his country, the embalmers would need to begin their work, as soon as possible after that decision was taken. I knew that it was not the tradition of the Rohirrim to make use of such techniques, but tradition would have to bend, when faced with a king slain so far from his realm.

Involuntarily, I shuddered at the thought of the embalmers, although I knew very well how stupid that reaction was.

As I had many times before, I thanked the Valar that our ancestors had settled upon the tradition of embalming and displaying only the leaders of the ruling households; the Kings themselves and the Stewards in later times. It was a loathsome vision that had given me more than one nightmare in the past, to imagine that the tradition had followed a slightly different path, and that all of our family were to lie here forever in the dusty hall of the House of the Stewards, sleeping upon pillows of stone.

By the gods, I was glad that it was only their marble tomb I had to look upon, when I made my now all-too-infrequent visits to my wife and my son. To think of having to look upon them as I must presumably someday have to look upon my father – to imagine their pallid semblance of life, and the dust that despite, the ministrations of the Tenders of the Tombs, would settle upon their clothing and their faces and their hair – those thoughts filled me with a horror unmitigated by the fact that the scene was imagination only.

It was bad enough, to think of someday having to see my father's body thus – always presuming, of course, that I did not end up getting myself permanently killed some time before my father's passing. It was no particularly pleasant thought to imagine myself lying here embalmed, either. I thought, _The Rohirrim have got a damned sight more sense than we have_. Better to lie in one of their barrows – or better yet, for one's body to be devoured in flame, as, it is said, was the custom of the Men of ancient times. I thought that I would prefer that by far, than to lie here in a mockery of life, my face forgotten by all except the Tenders of the Tombs who would come by to dust me once a week.

_Boromir_, I told myself, _you have done enough thinking_. _Enough and a good deal more. Stand there and do not think; we have nightmares enough in these days, without giving ourselves more of them_.

Slowly the candles' height wore down to what I judged should mark two hours' passing. I took a step away from the stone table and bowed to Éomer, who again left his post and walked a few paces away to speak with me.

"Forgive me for leaving so soon," I said.

He nodded. "I thank you for standing with us, My Lord," said Rohan's king. "I will see you on the morrow, at the council."

I took my echoing way back along the Silent Street, up the long winding stairs and through the door of Fen Hollen, that the porter locked behind me as I strode once more onto the streets of the living.

Only slightly more appealing, I thought, than my last duty, was the task that now lay before me: to beard my father in his lair, and demand that he tell me where in the Valar's names he had previously encountered Aragorn.

I was nearly running by the time I reached the Citadel, although I told myself there was no sense in working myself up to battle frenzy before I knew even if we would have this conversation. As like as not, I would not manage to see my father again tonight at all. There was a better than even chance that he had retired to his chamber at the top of the White Tower, and even if I did feel brave enough to request an audience of him there, the likelihood was that he would just ignore me. If he did deign to let me into his sanctum, I could certainly kiss goodbye to any hope of a reasonable discussion with him; for when he repaired to the Tower's peak, he tended to be in so black a mood that I might as well attempt a conversation with Sauron.

Svip was not in the Fountain as I passed it, and I hoped that he would not spend the entire night chattering with the Hobbits. I had to remind myself that Svip was three thousand and some years older than I, and that he probably did not need me worrying about him staying up past his bedtime.

_Well, the Hobbits are still younger than I am, _I answered myself_. It's not _quite_ so ridiculous for me to worry about them getting their sleep_!

At the Citadel Gate, the door to the White Tower, and again at the entrance to the Tower's stairs, I had inquired of the guards whether my father was within. Each answer had been in the affirmative, but I kept waiting grimly for the answer that would confirm my fears, and tell me that the Lord Steward had betaken himself to his chamber at the Tower's peak.

To my surprise, that confirmation did not come. The guard on the Tower's second floor, outside the door to my father's office, informed me that the Steward had been working there since early in the evening.

I cast up a swift prayer of thanks to the Valar, then knocked on the door before I had time to talk myself out of it.

"Come," my father's voice sounded through the door, with his usual impatience of any interruption.

I pushed open the creaking door and stepped within, taking off my _mithril_ helm and setting it down upon the table to the right of the door.

The Lord Steward sat at his desk, reading a parchment that he held in his hand. A good many other parchments were stacked neatly on the desk before him. He glanced up and fixed his gaze on me, and I wondered, for a moment, how many hundreds of times we had enacted this precise same scene.

_At least this time_, I told myself, _I do not have to tremble before him because I have botched my schoolwork_.

Noting my formal clothing, my father inquired, "You have paid your respects to Théoden King?"

"I have."

"Good." He turned again to the parchment, looking on it with thinned mouth and frowning gaze. I sighed to myself, wondering as I had so many times in my life if he were actually reading those documents, or if he just enjoyed putting me on edge by giving the impression that he was ignoring me.

"My Lord," I said, "Faramir has awakened."

That, at least, had the effect I desired. He looked up sharply, the documents in his hand momentarily forgotten. No emotion showed on his face as he gazed at me, nor did any sound in his voice when he finally asked, "How is he?"

"Well on the road to recovery, I believe. We talked for about an hour, before he fell asleep. His fever appears entirely past. It seems that rest is the medicine he most requires, now. I doubt not that he will be on his feet again in a few days."

The Steward looked at me unreadably some moments longer, then he gave a brisk nod. "That is well," he said, dropping his glance to the parchment once more.

_Father_, I thought, _would it kill you to look happy at the news I have just brought to you_?

_You know what he's like_, I told myself. _What do you expect_?

It wasn't anything that I expected from him, I realised. Rather, it was what I wanted. It was the same thing I had always wanted, for nearly as long as I could remember. The same thing I had always wanted, but that, it seemed, I would never have.

I wanted this wretched, useless war between Father and Faramir to end.

My father asked, without looking at me, "It was the Ranger who revived him?"

"It was, sir. With the use of the herb kingsfoil." I thought I heard an irritated little snort from my father at the herb's name. Taking good care not to mention Aragorn's other, more mystical methods of healing, and the possibility that he might indeed have "the hands of a healer," I went on. "He and two Rivendell Elves of his retinue, Lords Elladan and Elrohir the Sons of Elrond, remain in the Houses of Healing, tending to our other Men who are caught in this dark sleep. I authorised the Guard to make search for all kingsfoil as may be in the City and bring it to them."

Still ostensibly paying more heed to the document than to our conversation, the Steward inquired of me, "Should we expect the Sons of Elrond to claim the kingship as well? Shall we throw open the race for the throne to all who possess more skill than our own Healers – which, it seems, must be quite a number?"

I sighed again, wishing that, just once, I might get through an entire conversation with my father without encountering his sarcasm. "No mention was made of any claims to the throne, Father. I believe he is acting more from concern for the afflicted, than for thrones and crowns."

"Yes, of course," came my father's snide answer. "Precisely as he wishes you to believe."

_Why_, I asked myself wearily, _did you ever tell your father you believed that? You had to know what he would say_.

I sought to change the subject, and found a topic that, in truth, required attention. "Have steps been taken to provision the troops garrisoning the Harlond? The Army's warehouse must be re-supplied, and there will be little provender left after the enemy's sojourn there –"

"I have already seen to it, my son. The first supply wagons left some hours ago under the command of Ivarr Son of Yngvar, while you were still with your friends the Elven healers."

_Valar's balls_, I wondered, _why do I even bother_?

With a harsh sigh, the Steward threw the parchment down upon his desk. He continued to scowl at the document where it lay. "Our house is rare in surviving this day intact," he observed in bitter tones. "Few Lords of the Outlands can say the same. Forlong of Lossarnach and Hirluin of Pinnath Gelin both are slain. Duilin of Morthond was trampled on the field, and I have just been informed that his brother, who was injured with him, has now perished, as well. The Rohirrim lost not only Théoden himself, but also nine of their chief Men. It is a mighty host that live no more to face with us the Dark Lord's next assault. And we, I suppose, are expected to rejoice, for our King has come back to us!"

That list of the slain was sobering indeed, but I told myself that I did not have the leisure now to ponder or grieve over it. What I needed most, at that moment, was to uncover once and for all the tale of how my father knew Aragorn, and of why he hated the Northman with such deathly intensity.

"Sir," I said, "I must respectfully demand that you no longer keep me in the dark. If I am to act to the best of my abilities for the weal of Gondor, I must know the history with which we are dealing. Where and when have you encountered Aragorn? What do you know of him? I must know, My Lord."

The Steward studied me piercingly; seeking, I suppose, some sign in my face that would tell him I had already sworn my allegiance to Aragorn. Finally he sighed quietly, leaning back in his carven chair. "Take a seat, then, son," he said, in a voice bitter and weary. "It may be no long tale, but any time spent in speaking of him seems long to me. I would not have you stand through all of it."

That admission was a remarkable one, coming from my father. I took care not to make any comment on it as I grabbed a chair from the edge of the room and brought it to the side of his desk, lest my comment anger him and send him off onto some other irritated tangent.

When I had taken my seat, my father gazed on me still, with challenging and measuring eyes. At last he said, "The Lord Aragorn has visited Gondor before."

"So I gathered, My Lord," I said. Then, immediately, I cursed myself for opening my mouth.

My father snapped, "If you wish to hear this tale, you had best refrain from interrupting every time I end a sentence."

"I'm sorry, sir. I am listening."

The Lord Steward eyed me irritably, then he shook his head and went on. "He was last within our realm – the last occasion of which I am aware, although he may, of course, have sneaked into the country on any number of occasions – in the twenty-seventh year of your grandfather's reign."

My mouth dropped open in astonishment. I just managed to catch myself and shut it again before I could make any kind of exclamation.

I thought, _The twenty-seventh year of my grandfather's reign was nearly forty years ago! _

Had Aragorn been brought to Gondor as a child? What was it that he could have done then, to make my father so hate him – unless the hatred was inspired by the child's guardians, rather than the child himself?

But my father had recognised Aragorn when they met upon the Pelennor fields. He could have been no child, when my father had seen him last.

"Are you listening to me, Boromir?"

"Yes, sir."

"It was in the period when your grandfather opened up the ranks of Gondor's forces to encourage foreign captains and adventurers to fight in our service. Your friend the Captain of the Rangers went then by the name of Thorongil. He had served under Thengel of Rohan, and came to us with his recommendation."

My father paused in his tale. When he did not seem immediately inclined to continue, I risked a comment.

"Thorongil," I muttered, frowning and searching my memory. "I have read his name, I believe; in the chronicles and campaign reports."

"I've no doubt that you have. He rose high and swiftly in your grandfather's service, and in your grandfather's estimation. Within a year of joining us, he became the second-highest in rank of all Gondor's captains."

_The second-highest_, I thought. Second only, presumably, to my father himself, to my father who was then the Steward's Heir and Captain-General of Gondor.

"He commanded several successful campaigns in Ithilien, and in 2980 he led our fleet against the Corsairs of Umbar, assaulting their stronghold in the raid that crippled them until these recent years when we have seen them rebuilding their numbers and their strength."

I thought that it must be costing my father a good deal of effort for him to admit that Aragorn – or Thorongil – had performed glorious deeds in Gondor's service. I supposed that my father must know and accept, even as I did, that Aragorn was a Man of great ability. If he were not so, I thought, my father would not see him as a threat.

The Steward went on, "Captain Thorongil took great care to preserve the mystery of his background and his origins. That he had served in Rohan was all he would readily admit, although he did make occasional references to a childhood spent with Elves. He was, also, often in the company of the Lord Mithrandir, who made one of his periodic visits to our court, coincidentally beginning at around the same time as Captain Thorongil arrived."

My father picked up the pot of ink from his desk and began turning it around in his hands, gazing at it with such bitter loathing that I had no doubt of whose faces his mind's eye was confronting instead.

"I frequently advised the Lord Steward," my father continued, "that he should know more of this Man whom he had welcomed so unquestioningly to his service and his friendship. I advised him that Gondor's safety required us to know whom it was that we had accepted into our bosom, but that advice the Lord Steward chose to ignore. Thus I took it upon myself to uncover Captain Thorongil's secret."

With a sudden, angry sigh, my father slammed the inkpot down again. It was fortunate, I thought, that its lid was on tightly, for I hated to think of my father's reaction in this mood of his, if the ink had gone splattering over the desk.

"What I learned, was that our great Captain was in fact Aragorn Son of Arathorn, last scion of the Chieftains of Arthedain; that he had been raised in the household of the Lord Elrond Half-Elven; and that the Elf Lord and his friend the Grey Pilgrim had trained up their protégé that he might someday make again the claim that Arvedui made to the kingship of Gondor, the claim already once rejected but never forgotten by Elrond and the Wizard, who hope now through their pet kingling to extend their power over all the kingdoms of Men!"

My father's voice and his temper both had been rising as he proceeded through that speech. Now he swept his arm across his desk in a furious gesture, sending parchments, inkpot, pens and all clattering to the floor.

I leapt from my chair and started over to clean up the mess, but my father snapped at me, "Leave it. What do you think we have servants for? They will deal with it when I give them leave to do so. Now sit down."

I sighed and once more took my seat. The Lord Steward said, his voice quiet again, but with his anger still resounding clearly in each word, "I confronted Captain Thorongil with my discoveries just before he departed on the Umbar campaign. I demanded of him why he had hidden his identity from us, and whether he came to us with the intent of laying claim to the throne. To this, he made no clear answer, saying nothing but that his only desire was for Gondor's welfare. I accused him of cultivating my father's friendship with his eyes fixed upon the crown, with the aim of inducing the Lord Steward to support his already-rejected claim. And I demanded that he either make public his identity, or depart from Gondor's service. He chose the latter option."

I waited, but my father seemed to have said all that he intended to say. I risked speaking again, and asked, "Where did he go?"

"As to that, you will have to ask him. After the defeat of the Corsairs' fleet, he did not return to Minas Tirith. Men said that he had set forth alone, heading east toward the Mountains of Shadow. I have heard from time to time, over the years, of the doings of bands of Northmen whom I believed might be under his command. There have been occasional reports of a Ranger travelling in the company of the Grey Wanderer, matching our erstwhile Captain's description. But I received no certain tidings of him these forty years, until you wrote to me from Cair Andros and mentioned a Ranger of the North named Aragorn Son of Arathorn, with whom you had journeyed from the court of Lord Elrond Half-Elven."

"How old is he?" I marvelled then, my thoughts returning to the question that had so astounded me at the opening of my father's narrative. "My gods, he must be nearly as old as –"

My father smiled without any humour. "If the information that I received was accurate, the Lord Aragorn is approximately one half year younger than I am. He has not visibly aged any significant amount since last I saw him. His wandering life has clearly been beneficial to his preservation."

"Yes, sir," I said grimly, thinking of the obvious conclusion that I knew my father had made as well. Any Man who appeared so well-preserved when he was approaching ninety years, must have a sizeable portion of the Blood of Númenor flowing in his veins. Not that it had any impact on the validity, or lack thereof, of his claim. The claim of Arvedui rested on whether inheritance through the Northern Kingdom and the female line entitled the claimant to the throne of Gondor, not on the purity of his Númenorean blood. But his clear Númenorean bloodline, I thought, would be yet another sign that might enflame the feelings of the people in his favour, as popular a token of kingship as his remarkable skills in healing.

For a few moments, my father and I sat each wrapped in his own thoughts. I was watching a trail of ink that had made its way through the heap of fallen parchments and was now rolling along the line of grout between the flooring slabs.

"Why did he do it?" I pondered aloud.

My father raised his eyebrows at me in interrogation. I went on, "Why did he leave? If he meant to claim the throne, why did he leave forty years ago without doing so? And why has he returned to make his claim now? What factors are in place now that were missing then?"

My father answered sneeringly, "I presume that the desperateness of our peril has drawn him out of his lair. Now that we teeter on the brink of destruction, he has all the more opportunities to perform dramatic rescues and show himself as Gondor's hero. And added to that, the likelihood that this time he will find a Steward too old and enfeebled to lead any concerted resistance against him, and Steward's sons who will be more malleable to his will."

"I beg your pardon, sir?" I demanded.

"Well? Is it not so, that your brother has, from childhood, been the Wizard's special project, trained up to admire and believe all that Lord Mithrandir says, that when at last his puppet king emerges from the shadows, Faramir will be like to accept him without doubt or question?"

I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists. But there were too many other questions surging through my mind, for me to follow, then, the well-worn path of arguing with my father about Faramir. "I grant you the possibility of that being Mithrandir's plan, sir," I said. "What then of me? Do you say that I, too, will be malleable to Aragorn's will?"

"They have taken great effort to make you so. What was their aim in including you in their fools' quest, if not to give the pretender the chance to woo your friendship and your loyalty – or else to lead you into peril that would cause your death, and remove from the Ranger's path one of the few Men who might successfully block his play for power?"

I stared at him for a moment, feeling as if a blow to the gut had knocked all the breath from out of me. Then I groaned, rubbing my hands over my face. "Father, for the Valar's sakes. Will you claim now that they orchestrated my inclusion in the Fellowship in order to arrange my death? They had plenty of favourable occasions for slaying me, without needing to wait until I blundered into the way of a dozen Orc archers. I did sleep every now and then; it should not have been difficult for the Ranger to slit my throat as I slept. There should not have been any significant challenge presented by shoving me into a bottomless pit in Moria. If my death was indeed their intent, then they made a very poor job of it!"

The Steward gave another mirthless smile. "Ah," he answered, "but killing you outright is too straightforward for Lord Mithrandir's taste. Better, far, to sit back and let fate play its hand. He is too noble, too much the Steward to all Middle Earth, to go so far as to strike at you himself, or to order his protégé to do so. But if you should happen to be killed in the course of the journey, then so much the better. They would then have only to deal with your brother, who will dance to whatever tune the Wizard plays, and your father, whom they could realistically assume would perish from grief at your death!"

"Father!" I cried out. "I beg of you to calm yourself!"

He snapped, "I will calm myself when I please, not at the behest of my Wizard's-tool of a son!"

I was losing hold of my temper and I knew it; knew that I should keep my calm and not get myself into yet another shouting match with my father. That knowledge did not prove particularly helpful.

I challenged, "Will you tell me in what way I am his tool?"

"Are you not?"

"No, sir," I grated, "I am not. And I am waiting to hear the rest of your theory. How if I did not happen to be killed, what do you claim was their plan for me then?"

"Why, the very plan that they are even now pursuing. The Ranger had two months of journeying in which to win you to his side, to bind you to him with the sympathy engendered by enduring shared perils. And if that alone were not enough to assure your allegiance, then they would play the card that they have played now. Let situations be created in which the would-be king has the opportunity to save what you love most: let him sail to the rescue of your City in its time of need; let him pull your baby brother out from the maw of death. What then more likely than that you will become his worshipping slave, and support his play for the throne out of sheer sentimental gratitude!"

Fury surged through me, with a rush of nausea so strong that for a moment I felt I must either be violently ill, or I must launch myself at my father and beat him until he could no longer fling his taunts at my brother and at me.

Desperately I fought back that first upwelling of madness.

_I should not be this angry_, I told myself, _I should not be. It is only my father. It is only the way he is_.

I jumped to my feet and paced over to the window that looked to the east, that I might have some other motion into which I could channel my anger. Holding my position by the window, I turned back to face him, still feeling sick with rage.

"What have we done, sir, to merit your disdain? What have Faramir or I ever done that you should think us brainless tools, that you should believe we would put gratitude, friendship or anything else before our duty to our country?"

As he glared at me, I went on, a feeling of terrible sadness seeping in amidst my anger. "Do you think so little of your own skill in bringing us up, My Lord, that you unquestioningly assume that we will fail to be the sons you wish us to be?"

"All Men fail, Boromir," he answered me, in a voice cold and hopeless enough to freeze my marrow. "All."

"We will not fail in this, sir. We will not. I say to you that you taught us well. We live for the sake of Gondor; there is nothing that we will put before that. No other loyalty will be more important to us, _none_."

My father gazed on me for a moment that seemed extended into years. Then at last he gave a wintry smile. "I hope that you are right, my son," he said. "Tell me, then. What will be your actions when the Lord Aragorn states his claim before the Council?"

I took refuge once more in the thought to which I usually turned when I asked that question of myself.

"I hardly think it will come to that, sir. We have still the Lord of Mordor to face upon the field of battle."

My evasion would have no success, this time. My father stood up beside his chair, crossing his arms across his chest and eyeing me with a strange, somehow predatory smile. "And _if_ we survive that contest, Boromir; _if_ we survive, what then? What, then, will the Lord Boromir say, what stand will he take, when Aragorn Son of Arathorn states the claim of the Northern Line before the Council of Gondor?"

"That must depend upon the decision of the Council," I said.

"Must it? How if the decision of the Council and the best decision to preserve the welfare of Gondor are not the same?"

He wanted, I knew, to lure me into the admission that I might possibly, under some conceivable set of circumstances, support Aragorn's claim. And when I'd admitted that, it would give him free rein to tear apart my character limb from limb, to hurl at me every accusation that his fury could dream up.

Wearily I told myself that if we came to that pass, I must do nothing but endure it. Already I'd allowed myself to be baited into fighting with him twice this night, in Faramir's room and again here. That would have to do. I had used up the quota of anger for one day that I was willing to allow myself.

"I will do as you taught me to do, sir," I said. "I will put Gondor before all else. And I will act as I believe is best to defend her people, to protect their lives, their homes and their land. That is all that I can say."

It astonished me to see it. But somehow, for that moment, my father decided that my answer was enough. The dangerous glimmer departed from his gaze, leaving weary sorrow in its place.

"Yes," he said quietly, "you will put Gondor before all else. As must we all."

Of a sudden, he seemed to sag, resting one hand on his desk and leaning there as though bowed down with exhaustion and age.

I took a step toward him, murmuring, "Father?" But he waved me away and stood up straight once again.

He asked, "Have I answered all of your questions that need answering this night? If so, then I would say that both of us are in need of our rest before facing tomorrow's council."

"Yes, Father," I said. "May I walk you back to your chambers, sir?"

"No. Thank you. I have a little work yet to do, before I retire."

I had the unhappy feeling that I knew exactly what he intended. Like as not, he would not be sitting back down to work here. He would repair, instead, to his chamber at the top of the tower, to the sleepless brooding and dark thoughts in which I was sure he engaged there.

I thought, _I would like to tear down that room. I would like to wipe it from the face of Middle Earth, to stop my father from ever going there again_.

Whatever peace he sought there, I was certain that he was not finding it. More often than not, he returned from the tower's peak in a mood more vile than when had repaired to it.

I sighed. "Yes, sir. You will promise me that you will go to bed soon, My Lord?"

His smile seemed infinitely weary, but at least it held none of his bitter rage. He answered me, "I can promise you, my son, that I will take that request under careful consideration."

I bade my father good night, and made my way down the stairs, through the dimly lit Tower Hall and the Corridor of the Kings, and into the Court of the Fountain.

The Fountain still held no sleeping Svip. I considered, as I headed through the Citadel gate and into the first of the tunnels, whether I should seek out Svip in the Houses of Healing and urge him to get to bed. But, I told myself once again, it was not my role to spend the night racing about the Hill of Guard making sure that everyone I cared about was getting their sleep.

My mind swam dizzily with the things that I had just learned.

No longer, I thought, did I feel any wonder at the depths of my father's hatred for Aragorn. I had felt more than enough hostility, resentment and suspicion for the Man of the North myself, and I had not my father's reasons for those feelings.

I had not been forced to watch him win seemingly instant trust and friendship, from the one Man whom I had sought to impress and please for my entire life. I had not had to watch him leap to a position of power, and to wonder what his reasons for seeking that power might be. I had not had to wonder if the City and the father that I loved were safe in his care.

And I had not had the knowledge of his existence lurking in the corners of my mind for forty years. I had not spent those decades wondering when he might again make his appearance, wondering even when my life and the future and safety of our country seemed solidly under my control, if he might reappear and seek to seize Gondor's fate out of my hands.

I shook my head as I thought of it. _Let him take Gondor's fate, if he wishes it_. _Let him shoulder that burden; let it devour him as it is devouring my father_.

At the Sixth Level's gate I inquired of the guards if Mithrandir and two Elven lords had been passed in to the Houses of Healing. The guards replied that they had, near three hours past. They told me also that several deliveries of kingsfoil had been carried out already by members of the search parties.

I told myself that all was as well here as I could make it, and I continued my way once more to my townhouse.

It was troubled sleep, at best, that I achieved that night, and a very few hours of it.

My mind jumped maddeningly through the scenes of the day. Again and again, I sought to drag some memories out of my bizarre blackout in the midst of the battle, to no avail. Again the dying cry of the Captain of the Nazgûl wailed endlessly through my soul. Again I saw the rage and hatred on my father's face as he spoke of Aragorn Son of Arathorn, and I heard my brother whisper, "My Lord, you called me. I am here. What does the King command?"

_Dear Valar_, I thought, _what are we going to do_?

Before these last days, I would have stated without the slightest doubt: if a candidate for the throne appeared and made his claim before the Council, and if the Council upheld that claim, then my father would gladly welcome the King, handing over his authority as ruling Steward as he had always said that it was the duty of our house to do.

It had always been I who grumbled at my father's insistence that we must still be Stewards instead of Kings, who carped at what I saw as exaggerated loyalty to the dead and ancient past, and who, in my daydreams, laid my plans for the day when I would take the throne as the first King of the House of Mardil.

And now?

I could not now comfort myself that my father would abide by the will of the Council.

The will of the Council, more often than not, was my father's will. But what if, in this case, that did not prevail?

What if the Council – or the people – or a significant proportion of both – supported Aragorn's claim, and my father did not?

There was no chance, I knew now, that my father would ever agree to step aside for Aragorn. What if a portion of our forces took up arms for Aragorn, and another stood willing to fight for my father?

And what of Faramir?

He had always most loved the legends of wise Númenorean kings, who wandered the woods spouting poetry with Elves in the youth of our world. Now that such a king seemed appeared in truth – a king who had pulled Faramir back from Valar knew what nightmares, and whose claim he had acknowledged even as he awoke from the sleep that was nearly his death – every belief that Faramir had ever held would tell him to support Aragorn's cause. Every belief, including our father's own words that ten thousand years would not suffice to make a Steward a King.

My imaginings trembled at the edge of a vision of horror: of a day when Gondor would be rent by civil war, and when my brother took up arms against our father.

And I? What would I do upon that day?

_It will not happen_, I told myself. _None of us would let Gondor plunge into such an abyss. We will not take up arms against each other, and we will not deliver our country into that darkness._

Another fear crept into my mind; less dramatic by far, but also, I thought, perhaps more genuinely worthy of dread.

I heard again my father's threat to Mithrandir, that if Aragorn tended Faramir and Faramir died, the Northman would not live to pursue his claim to the throne.

Was there the chance, I asked myself, that the Steward might take that threat further?

Were there other situations apart from Faramir's death, in which my father might decide that the best and wisest solution to our problems would be if Aragorn vanished forever from the face of Middle Earth?

Before the day we had just passed, nothing would have induced me to believe that my father might stoop to so unworthy an act as assassination.

But now?

Now, I did not know.

I wondered, suddenly, if these same thoughts had come to Aragorn.

Was this what lay behind his courteous but unyielding insistence that he and his Men would not accept the hospitality of Minas Tirith? Did he suspect that he risked assassination, every minute he spent within our walls?

The curtains of my bed and of the window both hung open, where I had flung them that I might see the stars that flickered in the night sky, and be assured that the sky was not still that hideous nothing that had prevailed in the days and nights of the Enemy's darkness. Now I lay sleepless, watching the stars and praying that in due course they would fade into the dawn.

I knew that the morning would come. But I also knew that a part of my mind would never truly believe it, until I saw the sun rise with my own eyes.

An hour or two, perhaps, of sleep I snatched from out of that night of maddening thoughts. But when, at last, I saw the first, faintest hint of approaching dawn, I leapt from my bed with the determination that I would lie there wrestling my tormented imaginings no more.

As I washed again from the barrel of Anduin's water and swiftly dressed, I made my plans for at least one way that I could seize an advantage on the day.

I would ride to the River before sunrise, and have a damned good swim. Perhaps if I set myself a reasonable schedule and stuck to it, if I went back to the River at least once each day, I could save myself from any more such failures as my unbelievable blackout in the very thick of combat.

I would not ride Svip to the River this time, I decided. Who knew at what time he might finally have retired to the Fountain. I would give him another hour or so of sleep, ride one of the regular horses to the Harlond, and be back from my swim in time to fetch Svip and ride him to the council of war at Aragorn's tents.

I was striding across the courtyard and had nearly reached my stables, when the sound of voices beyond the courtyard wall made me stop in my tracks. I listened, and as I did so, I smiled, for there was no mistaking to whom those voices belonged.

"There is some good stone-work here," came the voice of Gimli Son of Glóin, "but also some that is less good, and the streets could be better contrived. When Aragorn comes into his own, I shall offer him the service of the stonewrights of the Mountain, and we will make this a town to be proud of."

"They need more gardens," Legolas of Mirkwood replied. "The houses are dead, and there is too little here that grows and is glad. If Aragorn comes into his own, the people of the Wood shall bring him birds that sing and trees that do not die."

I could have done without the mentions of Aragorn coming into his own, striking, as they did, entirely too close to the still-open wounds of the thoughts with which I had fought through the night. And the gibes at our stonemasonry and our dead White Tree were comments to which, on other occasions, I might well have taken exception.

But their comments notwithstanding, Legolas and Gimli were two beings whose voices I was very glad to hear.

A horse whinnied beyond the wall, waking two of my own horses in their stalls and summoning from them sleepy whinnies in reply. I heard Gimli mutter something, presumably some Dwarven epithet against their horse, and at the same moment, Legolas remarked, "This must be his house here."

I ran through the courtyard, startling the two guards at their posts just inside the gate as I called out to them, "Open the gate! Those without are friends; pass them in."

The two Men blinked in surprise, but obeyed. Even as they pushed the gate open, I was hastening through it, to the equal startlement of their two fellow guards outside. These two snapped to attention and saluted me.

"Good morning," I greeted the guards, feeling for that moment as cheerful as I had felt weighted with doom in the hours that had just passed. Of a sudden, I grinned, and I asked of the two, "Have you ever seen an Elf and a Dwarf sharing one horse?"

The guards did their best not to look as though they feared I'd taken leave of my senses.

"I've never seen an Elf, My Lord," one answered, "or a Dwarf."

"Is it a joke, My Lord?" the other Man asked.

"If it is," I said, "we would do best not to tell it in the presence of these gentlemen."

Up the Citadel Road, rounding the curve of my courtyard's wall, walked Legolas, Gimli and their horse. The horse followed close at Legolas' heels, for all the world as though he were the Elf's pet dog. Gimli kept as much distance as possible between himself and the horse, ostentatiously walking on the opposite side of the road, and taking twice as many steps as Legolas in the effort to keep pace.

"Good morrow, My Lords," I called to them. "I hope you have met no misfortune with your horse?"

"We made a bargain," answered Legolas, laughter in his tones. "I persuaded the Dwarf to endure the passage to the City on horseback, in return for my promise that I would allow him to walk up the hill."

"Aye," Gimli growled, "and what possesses you Men to build your homes on the mountain-tops? Are you descended from the eagles, that you must have your eyries on the highest peaks, with no good solid rock between you and the sky?"

One of my fears in that night came back to me with sudden force, and I hurried down the road to meet my old companions. In a low voice I asked of Legolas, "I trust that Aragorn has safely returned to camp?"

"Yes," replied the Elf. "He, Mithrandir and the Sons of Elrond returned about an hour past."

Gimli grudgingly made his way across the street that he might be part of the conversation, though not without an obligatory hostile glare at the horse. The Dwarf put in, gesturing with his thumb at Legolas, "The both of us spent most of the night awake, watching for Aragorn's return. When he did come back, it was near enough to the dawn that we decided we might as well give up on getting any sleep."

"I thought you might be already abroad," Legolas went on, "since you have this council to attend. So we thought we would see if you have any time to spare for the tale-telling we have promised each other. And when you leave for the council, perhaps you can direct us to where we may find Merry and Pippin."

"Why," I asked in puzzlement, "are you not, then, attending the council?"

Legolas shook his head, frowning slightly. "No; we are not among the Captains."

"That's ridiculous," I said. "If this council is to determine our next courses of action against the Dark, then every one of the Fellowship of Nine should be there who can be. Your experience and your opinions should command as much respect as those of any Captain." Pausing for a moment to look at the now uncomfortably frowning two, I asked of them, "Will you come to the council if I ask it of you? As my comrades? As such, you must be welcome, even if others do not have the sense to seek your counsel."

The Elf and the Dwarf cast an uneasy glance at each other. I supposed they must fear that attending the council at my request might somehow obligate them to support me, if I ended up taking some stand against a course that was argued by Aragorn.

I told them, "I would not have this council determine our fates without your voices as part of it."

They studied me a moment longer, then Legolas said seriously, "Thank you, Boromir. We will be there, then, if you wish it."

My trip to the River, I decided, could very well wait; the chance to catch up with these two friends was one that I should not allow to slip past me.

"Will you come in?" I invited them. "If we're to be trading tales, we can find a more comfortable spot for it than standing in the street. We should be able to scare up some breakfast as well. Your horse may visit with mine, in the stables – that is, if Gimli can be persuaded to part with him."

Gimli muttered, "I will force myself to endure the separation."

The pale steed of Rohan was soon installed with his lesser brethren. Young Balamir came rushing into the courtyard to see if I required anything, just as we finished in the stables. The boy had to struggle valiantly to pay heed to my order for an extra large pot of tea and whatever breakfast things he could liberate for us without getting in Dame Weltrude's way. All the while, he was staring, with eyes like saucers, at my two oddly-assorted companions.

I led my comrades to the balcony of my chambers. Here we were soon ensconsed upon the marble benches, swigging copious quantities of tea, munching the rolls, sausages and cheese that Balamir had conjured up for us, and watching as the morn crept over Ephel Dúath and at last spread its first tendrils of light across the roofs of the City.

I could not help thinking of the last time these two and I had broken our fast together. I pictured the lawn of Parth Galen, spreading green and lush at the feet of Amon Hen, and I pictured the eight of us sitting leaned against our Elven boats and the roots of the great trees that marched westward along the curving shore. Few of us had spoken as we made our breakfast of _lembas_. I remembered looking around me at the faces of the others, and wondering from which of those comrades I would be parted that day, when the Company made their choice to turn west with me, or east toward Mordor.

"The people of Minas Tirith brew good tea," remarked Gimli, his voice a welcome interruption to my remembering, "but we came here not for tea and sausages, but for a story. You promised us, Lord Boromir, the tale of how you contrived to return to life only _after_ we had hauled you to the River at the risk of our backs."

"I can see, Master Gimli, that you will never allow me to live that down. When you are the most ancient of all the Dwarves, with rheumatism in every joint, you will still be blaming me for your every ache and pain." I sighed and took a swig of my tea. "Has Mithrandir spoken nothing regarding my return?"

Legolas said, "He and Aragorn spoke of it, on their way to or from the City. Aragorn made mention of that, when they returned to camp; but he would say only that it is well, and there is no cause for fear at your return."

_That was nice of him_, I thought. _No cause for others to fear, perhaps. But there is plenty for me to fear. If I were still dead, I would not now need to seek the means of holding my father, my brother and our country back from civil war_.

I sighed again and poured myself another cup of tea. "You remember my friend Svip, whom you met last night? He lives in the River Anduin, in a house below the Falls of Rauros. And he knows certain remedies and spells, that together can bring the dead back to life."

I told the tale, as light painted the sky over the Mountains of Shadow. And as the sun at last climbed above the mountains, and the dregs of our tea grew cold, I listened in my turn to the tale of Legolas and Gimli.

Snatches of it I had heard in different form, in Pippin's story as he had related it to me. But there was much that I had not heard before. They spoke of their quest across the plains of Rohan for the Hobbits and their Orc captors. They spoke of webs of intrigue that had near strangled the Rohirrim royal house, of the mighty battle fought at the stronghold of Helm's Deep, and Gimli spoke of wondrous caves beneath that fortress, the Dwarf's voice ringing with love and awe as he painted the portrait of those caverns in his words.

Gimli would not speak of the next portion of their journey. So it was Legolas who told, in his quiet voice, the story of how Aragorn's company departed the Rohirrim hill fort of Dunharrow, of their voyage beneath Dwimorberg the Haunted Mountain, and of their strange ride through Morthond, Lamedon and Lebennin, with a ghostly army of the long-accursed dead in their train.

There was much in that tale that I could scarce believe. But I told myself that I would do well to temper my disbelief. The shadow host of the Oathbreakers of Dunharrow made a story not much more strange than a Wizard who fought a Balrog to their deaths and was sent back to Middle Earth to complete his tasks, or a Steward's son rescued from his watery grave by a small green shape-shifter.

I glanced at the rosy orb of the sun, and I said, "There is much more that I wish to hear of your battles, my friends, and of your progress from Pelargir to Minas Tirith. But our council is set for one hour past the sunrise. I promised Svip that I would ride him to the council. He should be either at the Citadel or else at the Houses of Healing, with the Hobbits. If we make haste we may bid good morning to Pippin and Merry – and extend to them the invitation to attend the council with us if they choose, though I will not blame them if they choose some more pleasant way of spending their morning."

Gimli suggested, "Let us bring them our leftovers. I'm sure the Hobbits will not turn up their noses at a bit of extra breakfast."

I stood and wrapped up the remaining sausages and bread rolls in a napkin, handing them to Gimli, who stashed them in his pack. I took a step toward the door of my chambers, then for a moment I paused, turning back to face my comrades.

"Legolas, Gimli," I began, "there is something that I would ask you. Do not dread to answer with the truth. I vow it will do no harm to you or any of your friends, for me to know your truthful answer."

They looked at me in question, and I forced my way past my hesitation and asked, "Do you support Aragorn's claim to the kingship of Gondor?"

The two of them gazed at me taken-aback. Gimli opened his mouth, but before he could answer, Legolas cast a silencing glance at him and then spoke in his usual quiet tones, "We are not Men of Gondor. It is not our place to choose if we will have him as King or no. This I know, that if Gondor seeks a king, it could wish for none better."

Gimli put in, "The Army of the Dead fought for him. They heeded his call, that he made as Isildur's Heir. On the Paths of the Dead I was put to shame: Gimli Glóin's Son, who had deemed himself more tough than Men, and hardier under earth than any Elf. But neither did I prove; and I was held to the road only by the will of Aragorn."

"And by the love of him, also," said Legolas. "He is a king indeed, Boromir – if it is a king that you seek."

"Aye," I murmured, gazing on their faces and praying that the day would never come when we would face each other in war. "That is where the question lies. Some will seek a king, and some will not. And I do not know what will become of Gondor, with her future hanging in the balance."

I shook my head and managed a smile. "But I do know what will become of me, if I am late for this council. Let us be gone, for I would not start the day with another round of my father's scolding."

The three of us set out on foot for the Sixth Level and the Houses of Healing. As we approached the Sixth Level's gate, Legolas stopped and gazed into the morning sky, where two white sea-birds wheeled and cried.

"Look," exclaimed Legolas, "gulls! They are flying far inland. A wonder they are to me and a trouble to my heart. Never in all my life had I met them, until we came to Pelargir, and there I heard them crying in the air as we rode to the battle of the ships. Then I stood still, forgetting war in Middle Earth, for their wailing voices spoke to me of the Sea. The Sea! Alas, I have not yet beheld it. But deep in the hearts of all my kindred lies the sea-longing, which it is perilous to stir."

"Come," Gimli said gruffly, clasping the Elf's arm. "There are countless things still to see in Middle Earth, and great works to do. But if all the fair folk take to the havens, it will be a duller world for those who are doomed to stay."

We walked on together upon the path that had grown all too familiar to me, through the entrance to the Houses of Healing, up the stairs and down the corridors toward Merry's room, and my brother's.

The Houses themselves seemed altered, though if it were only the light of the morning that wrought the seeming change, or something else, I could not, in truth, have told. Deep below the level of my hearing, there seemed some added murmur of life; a stirring as though last night the Houses had been dead, and now life and hope breathed within them once more.

We were nearly to Merry's door. And then, just as had occurred the evening before when Imrahil, Éomer, Svip and I arrived from the field of battle, the Chief Healer came running up the staircase from his office, out of breath and with panicked desperation in his gaze.

The Warden of the Houses skidded to a halt at my side. "My Lord!" he gasped out. "I am glad to see you! The Lord your father is here, and he –"

From beyond the closed door to Faramir's room, down the corridor, came a sudden crash, as of some piece of crockery shattering on the floor. I heard a woman's startled scream, and then the voices of two Men, raised in furious anger: the voice of Faramir, and of our father.


	18. Chapter Eighteen: The Council of the Div...

Author's Note (March 2004): Well, here I am, posting again just over three months after the last time. The usual apologies for taking so long, and thank you to all who have reviewed and/or sent messages asking when the next chapter was coming!

A few things I feel I ought to mention here. To all who have wondered if I'm thinking of Boromir's death at Amon Hen as matching the one in the film or in the book, in this chapter you will find the answer. Sorry to any who may be disappointed in my choice! Then, to fans of Elladan and Elrohir, sorry about giving the two of them only very small guest appearances here, but they will have at least a bit more to do, later in the story.

The final and to me, most important note: I need to state in the most vehement of terms that the Denethor in my story is NOT the Denethor who appears in Mr. Jackson's film. (I would venture to say that the Denethor in Tolkien's work is also not the Denethor in the film.) To me, Jackson committed a foul wrong, as well as showing complete immaturity, in portraying Denethor as wholly bad, and in needing cheap visual gimmicks such as Denethor's messy eating to demonstrate the Steward's madness. As I see it, this is the bottom line: those who hate Denethor should hate him for what he does and says in Tolkien, not for what he does and says in a cinematic adaptation that has wandered ever farther from its source.

That said, I will get off my soap box, cease my rant (for now!), and say to all, thank you for reading, and on with the story!

_Chapter Eighteen: The Council of the Diversion _

I sprang for the door to my brother's room and wrenched it open.

I could not have clearly said what I feared to find. I suppose that I imagined discovering Faramir and our father at blows or swordspoint, disputing the merits of Aragorn's claim to the throne.

With relief, I beheld them both on their feet, and apparently whole. Father again was clad as though for battle, his sword girt by his side. Only a helm was lacking to make his armament complete. Faramir stood there barefoot, dressed in breeches and shirt and with the green tunic of his regiment clutched crumpled in his hands.

The only obvious casualty was a shattered washbasin. Dame Ioreth crouched on the floor between Lord Denethor and his son, making haste to gather up the shards into her apron.

As I barrelled into the room, Faramir declared, "I could have been ready ere now, My Lord, had you not thought the need more pressing to again remind me of my shortcomings –"

Our father snarled back, "I am wearied of hearing what you 'could have been,' Faramir. I care not for what you could have been, but for what you are."

"What I am, sir –" Faramir began, only to cut off his words as the Lord Steward cast a cursory glance in my direction. Only for an instant did Father's eyes rest on me, but that glance was enough to turn the argument from its course.

Faramir's gaze did not waver from the Steward's face. Again my father and brother glared at each other, as though each wished that his gaze alone could strike the other dead. Then the Steward turned on Dame Ioreth and snapped, "Make haste, woman. Lord Faramir does not have all the day to wait on you while you are demolishing the Houses' crockery."

"It is not her fault, sir," put in Faramir. His tone of voice was calmed considerably, but there was still a bright flush of anger splashed across his cheeks. "She would not have dropped the basin, had we not startled her with our shouting."

Our father sneered, "Those who labour in the service of Gondor should require more than raised voices to startle them in these days."

It would have been highly inappropriate of me, but I very nearly laughed in my relief. I had been a fool, I told myself, to become so caught up in the dark pictures that my fears in the night had painted. It should have been no surprise to me to hear Father and Faramir shouting. The surprise would have been if they had spent more than a minute in each other's company, without getting into a fight about _something_.

This was one of their everyday arguments, that much was clear. In nine cases out of ten, just as now, Father and Faramir would cease their sniping at each other when I came into the room. Only when their quarrel was serious indeed, did it continue unabated while I was there to hear.

The Chief Healer had skidded into the doorway on my heels. Glancing over at him now, I saw him looking decidedly green about the gills. But as he wavered on the verge of beating a retreat, Dame Ioreth looked up and spotted him.

She scrambled to her feet, clutching close her apron's-worth of shattered porcelain. "Sir," she exclaimed, "and My Lord Boromir! You can tell the Lord Steward: Lord Faramir is not to be out of his bed –"

"It is true, My Lords," the Warden of the Houses ventured unhappily. "The Captain of the Dúnedain was very definite; not for ten days yet should Lord Faramir depart from this House –"

"My son is not bound by the limitations of ordinary Men, nor by the recommendations of a Northern vagabond. If he says that he is well enough to leave his bed, then well enough he is."

The words had been spoken in a combination of pride and challenge. Our father turned a measuring glare on Faramir, who answered the challenge in his quiet but firm-voiced reply, "I am well, My Lord. There is nothing to prevent me from attending this morning's council."

Dame Ioreth rolled her eyes as though she would lodge another complaint. A look at the two glowering Men dissuaded her from that course. "If you'll pardon me, My Lords," she muttered. Ducking her head she scuttled between the Steward and the Captain of Ithilien, trying to keep out of the line of their matching glares.

As Dame Ioreth sped past us and made her escape, the Chief Healer nerved himself for a second attempt. "My Lords, I must protest this," he began. "So long as Lord Faramir is in my charge, I cannot countenance such wilful disregard of his health –"

"It is not for you to countenance his actions or no," the Steward snapped out, "nor is it for the Captain of the Dúnedain to countenance them. Lord Faramir is in his own charge. And he will make swifter progress in dressing if he does not meet a storm of protest with every garment that he dons."

The Healer turned a desperate gaze on me. "My Lord Boromir," he essayed, "can you not persuade them –?"

I sympathised with the Man. But so relieved was I to find the argument no worse than usual – and to see Faramir on his feet again and recovered enough to argue – that his leaving his bed sooner than recommended seemed at that moment a trifling matter indeed.

"You will do well to take your leave, Master Warden," I advised. "I am sure that there are other patients requiring your attention."

Once more the Warden opened his mouth to complain. Then, with a sigh, he shut it again. "Aye, My Lord," he snapped. In motions as stiff as those of a marionette, he bowed and stalked from the room, not without an accusatory glower at me.

From over my shoulder came the quiet voice of Legolas, whose presence I had entirely forgotten. "We will go to look in on Merry, Boromir," he murmured as unobtrusively as possible. "His room is nearby …?"

"Yes," I confirmed, attempting a smile as I turned to the Elf and the Dwarf. "It's the second room along the hall. I'll join you there shortly."

Both of them nodded, Legolas with a look of sympathy and Gimli with an embarrassed smile.

Faramir and our father had silently observed these various departures. Turning back toward my family, I saw that all colour was again drained from Faramir's face.

I had to force myself not to hasten to his side. He would thank me not at all for revealing concern for him in our Lord father's presence.

The Steward turned once more to Faramir, and remarked, "I trust you will not need to wait until the woman returns with a new washbasin."

"No, sir. I can manage without." To prove his words, Faramir shrugged into his tunic, face set against any betrayal of discomfort from his arrow wound.

Keenly eyeing his younger son, the Lord Steward asked now, "You are sure that you are well enough to attend this council?"

"I am certain of it, sir," Faramir said coldly. "Please do not concern yourself."

The best thing that I could do, I thought, would be to get our father out of there. Faramir could certainly use a few minutes' respite from his company. And I wanted the chance to learn just how fit to attend this meeting my brother actually was.

"Please go on ahead, Father," I suggested. "We will follow you in all haste."

Father's piercing gaze turned on me as soon as I spoke. He glanced from me, to Faramir, and back to me again. Unexpectedly, his mouth quirked into a thin smile.

"Do not concern yourselves overmuch with haste. We need not give Lord Aragorn the notion that we are racing to avail ourselves of his counsel."

With that, he departed, whilst I refrained from pointing out that this council of war had been his own suggestion to begin with.

Immediately our father was out of the door, I hurried to Faramir. He was biting his lip and grimly attempting to lace up his tunic.

"Let me do that," I ordered. "You look like you're about to faint."

Faramir hesitated. Then he gave up and allowed me to take over the task of lacing. He gave a sickly smile. "I swear to you," he muttered, "some day I really am going to punch that Man. _Then_ what kind of a world of grief will I be in?"

I studied his pallid face, and did not at all like what I saw. Trying not do be too much the over-protective brother, I asked him, "What was the shouting about?"

"The same as usual," he snapped. "Absolutely nothing at all. Damn it, Boromir. We were saying the same damned thing. I said I was attending the council, he said I was attending the council, and we still ended up shouting at each other! And then poor Dame Ioreth had to go and put in her oar."

A sheen of sweat had appeared on Faramir's brow. No longer could I restrain myself from demanding, "Do you really think you're all right to go through with this? You do look bloody awful."

A bitter laugh was the answer. "Valar's blood! You think that I could miss this council now? Father would poke holes in me over it for months!" Taking on our father's biting tones, he mimicked, "'Of course, Lord Faramir, as you would know if you had been strong enough to attend our council of war …'"

"It'll be much better if you swoon in the middle of the council, of course."

For an instant he eyed me angrily. Then with an expression of wide-eyed innocence, he pointed out, "But, Boromir, I'm only doing what my big brother would do in my place."

"Watch it, you brat," I growled, as I finished lacing his tunic. Glancing around, I found the rest of his garments neatly piled on the table by the door, with a pair of his boots stood at the table's side. Bowing to my brother, I inquired, "Will Your Lordship sit down to don your boots, or is that too much a sign of weakness?"

Faramir pulled a face, but he sat down on the edge of the bed. I brought his boots and clothing to him.

Sitting down beside him, I asked, "How did you learn of this morning's council?"

He answered with a faint quirk of a smile, "From Dame Ioreth, of course. When I woke, I rang for breakfast and my clothes, and Ioreth couldn't resist chattering to me about this council of war. Good thing, too, else I'd still have been flat on my back when Father arrived to announce that he expects my attendance at the council."

I sighed angrily. "It's ridiculous of him to expect it of you. He damn well knows that, or he ought to. And you know it, too. I ought to go after him and tell him where he can shove his expectations –"

"It's my decision, Boromir," my brother stated quietly, "not his. I'd be going whether he ordered it or not."

"For Valar's sakes –"

"Look, I'll go to my townhouse and go straight to bed as soon as the council's over. I promise you. That's going to have to be good enough."

I sighed again. A barely audible knock sounded at the door, to which we both called in answer, "Come."

Dame Ioreth cautiously poked her head around the door. Seeing only the two of us, she bustled into the room, bearing a new washbasin which she set down upon the bedside table.

"Dame Ioreth," I requested, "kindly send word to our townhouses: my horse and Lord Faramir's are to be readied and brought here to the Houses –"

"I already sent for mine," said Faramir, pulling on his boots. "It should be here by now."

"Did you? Good. Then, Ioreth, you need send to my townhouse only. Have them bring the sorrel horse of Rohan that I rode yesterday, and the other Rohirrim steed that came to our stables this morning. They need not concern themselves with any accoutrements for the second horse; its riders do not use them."

As Dame Ioreth curtsied and departed, I asked Faramir, "You haven't seen Svip this morning?"

He shook his head, then stood up and fastened his cloak about his shoulders.

"I'll need to have a look for him," I said, standing up as well. "He'll be fit to be tied, if I ride another horse to the council without trying to find him."

I made for the door, Faramir following close behind. His stride was strong and unfaltering, but I could not hold myself from stopping and eyeing him critically once again. My brother stubbornly met my gaze, daring me to start the argument again.

"Well?" he challenged. "Don't we need to be looking for Svip?"

"Fine," I sighed.

We stepped into the corridor, and walked into another family argument.

Standing in the next doorway along was Éomer King of Rohan. He had apparently planted himself in the doorway to block the egress of the lady his sister.

Lady Éowyn stood just within, golden hair flowing loose as a mantle about her shoulders, her face near as pale as were her white gown and the sling upon her arm. The lady stood motionless as a statue of marble and gold, but never did I see a statue's face carved in such bitter anger.

"Éowyn, you are not listening to me," Lord Éomer hissed. "Our uncle would not stand for it, and no more will I. You have risked far too much already. I'll not have you traipsing off to a council of war, when not a day has yet passed since the Healers despaired of your life –"

"Traipsing?" she shot back. "Was I traipsing when I rode with the Éored? Was I traipsing yesterday upon the field of battle?"

The lady caught sight, then, of Faramir and me. A moment only, her angry gaze remained on us, then she spoke again in clear, ringing tones, all the more defiant for having an audience.

"You are right, My Lord brother. Our uncle did not include me in his councils. He thought it not my place. Perhaps it was not. But it is my place now. I earned that right yesterday, at the point of my sword. Can you deny that?"

Éomer heaved a sigh. "I don't deny you have earned that right. I do deny your right to wilfully imperil your health, when your presence at the council can serve no useful purpose save to appease your pride."

Lady Éowyn drew in a breath, no doubt mustering her forces for a withering blast of invective. I cleared my throat loudly and said, "Good morrow to you, Éomer King; Lady Éowyn. Forgive us for intruding."

Éomer started a little, then he swiftly turned and bowed. A moment later, his sister bowed her head to us with a murmured, "Good morrow, My Lords." Her eyes, when again she looked up, had lost none of their anger, a fact not lost upon the King her brother.

"Please excuse us," said Faramir, bowing and starting for Merry's door. Éomer King fairly leaped after us.

"Ride you to the council, cousins?" he asked hastily. "Pray wait for me; I will ride with you." He turned back to his sister, striving to assert some kingly authority in his tone. "We will speak of this later, Éowyn," he said.

Undaunted, she glared upon him, and in tones of ice, she answered, "We will, My Lord." She turned on her heel and closed the door silently behind her. The very silence of her action seemed to prophesy tough going for Éomer, when next they took up this discussion.

The young King of Rohan managed a queasy smile. He inquired after Faramir's health, and while the two of them were exchanging pleasantries, I knocked upon Merry's door.

The Hobbit's voice summoned me in. Within, I discovered Merry, assisted by Legolas and Gimli, stowing the remnants of a massive breakfast into a couple of packs. From the look of things, I would have wagered that Dame Ioreth and every other woman in the place had indulged her mothering instincts by showering Merry and Pippin with baked goods.

Merry seemed entirely healed, as though the black shadow had never laid its touch upon him. Despite the Hobbitish concern for food, he abandoned his packing when Éomer and Faramir followed me into the room. Gravely he shook hands with Faramir and exchanged greetings as I introduced them. More gravely still, he then knelt before Éomer.

"Éomer King," he said, "at the Hornburg I knelt to your uncle and pledged him my sword and my service. My sword I have no more; it perished on the field where Théoden King fell. I have nothing to pledge you now but my fealty and love, but both are yours if you will accept them."

Éomer smiled sadly. "I accept both, and gladly. Rise, Meriadoc, esquire of Rohan of the household of Meduseld. As a son you were to Théoden King, and as a brother shall you be to me."

Merry stood, then stammering a little, he asked, "My Lord, is – is Lady Éowyn well?"

The Horselord attempted not to grimace at that; attempted, but did not entirely succeed. He said, "She is well enough to chafe at confinement to her room, and to have no hesitation in telling me so. If you will, I would have you sit with her and do what you can to turn her thoughts from dark roads – but perhaps your presence is required at the council?"

"Well," said Merry, looking around at us uncertainly, "I don't know if it's required. Pippin's already going there," he told Faramir and me, "your father swooped in and told him off for being absent from his duties as esquire – I'm sorry, I don't mean he told him off, he –"

"I'm sure he did tell him off," Faramir said gently, with a smile.

Éomer said, "Then we must not make your cousin endure this council without the encouragement of your presence. Come with us, and after, if you will, I'll assign you the duty of sitting with Lady Éowyn."

Our company set out again, and again I asked after Svip. The Hobbits, it seemed, had not seen him since the night before; Merry told me that he had left soon after I did.

In the courtyard of the Houses of Healing, our horses awaited under the care of servants from my townhouse, Faramir's, and the Citadel stables. I started to excuse myself to go and look for Svip, telling the others that they should go on without me. But even as I spoke, the water creature himself hastened in through the Houses' gate.

Faramir's horse neighed in startlement as Svip hurried by. The three Rohirrim horses kept their usual aplomb, though even they seemed to eye Svip askance.

For once he took no notice of the horses' unease. He walked straight past, making no attempt to keep his distance from them, and stopped before me.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Svip muttered. He looked up at me briefly and immediately dropped his gaze back down to his feet.

"Svip, what is it?" I asked.

"It's nothing. I'm all right. I'll tell you about it later."

Faramir, Merry and I exchanged surprised and worried glances. The others had already mounted up, and Éomer called now, "Come, Master Meriadoc, you shall ride with me."

"No," interjected Svip, in that subdued and sullen tone that was so strange to hear from him. "You can ride on me, Merry. Boromir's already got a horse."

"I wasn't planning on riding him," I protested, wondering if this could be the cause of Svip's unheard-of mood. "I sent for him in case one of the others needed –"

"It's all right," Svip cut in flatly. "We'll make faster progress if the horses aren't double-burdened."

That statement was nonsense in the circumstances, for Legolas and Gimli's steed was double-burdened already, and Merry was hardly heavy enough to bother these horses, in any case. But I forbore to argue, instead sharing another troubled look with Merry.

"All right, then," Merry said, striving to sound cheerful. "Thank you, I'd – I'd be honoured to ride you."

Svip's sudden transformation to horse form took several of us by surprise, including Faramir's horse. The beast neighed and made as though to bolt, and it took the calming hands and voices of both Faramir and the groom to ease the horse's fear. There were exclamations of wonder from the Elf and the Dwarf, from Éomer and from Merry.

I frowned and thought that if this mood of Svip's were not mended soon, we were like to have all the horses in the City stampeding in terror. Forcing a smile, I said to Merry, "It's all right; Svip's very careful with his riders. He won't let you fall. Will you, Svip?"

The big grey horse looked offended, and said, "No, of course not."

Merry cast a terrified smile up at me. I lifted him up and set him behind Svip's neck.

"It's all right if you take hold of my mane," Svip told him. Merry gingerly obeyed.

Éomer set off at the head of our procession, followed next by Legolas and Gimli, and by Svip with the unhappy Merry. I followed after, riding Fengel the horse of Rohan. Faramir brought up the rear, keeping his nervous horse well out of the way of Svip.

As we made our way through the Sixth Level's gate and past the walls of my townhouse, Faramir rode closer to me and caught my eye. He whispered, "What is the matter with him?"

I could only shake my head.

It was a fair spring morning, with light puffs of cloud and a dancing breeze out of the west. Almost it seemed impossible that only one day in the past, the City had been a place of fire and darkness, our walls besieged on all sides and all the will of the Foe bent upon shattering our Gate.

The white walls of the houses gleamed, scrubbed clean by yesterday's rain. Flowers shone brightly from out of window boxes. Their sweet scents wafted to us from the boxes and the hidden gardens that nestle in the terraces behind so many of our townsmen's houses. The westerly breeze seemed to guard the City in its embrace, holding at bay the odours of war that waited on the Pelennor Fields: the reek of smoke from many bonfires where fallen _mûmakil_, too large for us to shift, were burned, and the heavy stench of thousands of bodies, that our burial details, toiling through the night, had not yet reached.

Our journey down the levels of the City took us from the illusion of peace, with its blue skies and its flowers, and back to the reality of war. Here and there upon the Second Level, and far more upon the First, Men laboured at clearing away the debris of the enemy's fires. Here the scent of flowers was lost in the stink of wet ash, and the breeze caught up black flakes of soot that blew into our faces to sting at our eyes and our throats.

Beyond the Great Gate, relics of the battle met us at every turn. Remains of three vast bonfires smouldered along the Road, where the corpses of _mûmakil_ and mountain-trolls had proved too heavy to move. A large party of the City Guard, aided by several groups of Guildsmen and six of the Carters' Guild's largest and strongest horses, were struggling to raise the great wolf's-headed battering ram and bring it into the City.

The bodies of our Men and the enemy had been cleared from the areas nearest the Gate, but all across the plain, one could see the burial parties at work: heavy-laden carts everywhere on the move, hauling their burdens south to the mass graves for the enemy being dug at the foot of Mindolluin, or making their way back to the City when a cart was filled with our own dead.

We crossed over the blackened line of the enemy's trenches, displaced earth hastily shovelled into place to mend the wound where a trench had sliced through the City Road. Just under a mile beyond the City, we came to a place where the labourers were Riders of Rohan.

North of the Road they heaped the last shovels-full of earth upon a goodly-sized burial mound. Hard by the foot of the mound, a bonfire blazed. Oily, stomach-turning smoke caught at our nostrils. One monstrous black wing reached out of the flames, webbed claws upraised as though the creature that had owned that wing sought yet to take to the sky.

In subdued tones, Éomer called a halt. He dismounted and left the Road to speak with his Men. The rest of us waited in respectful silence. Then I heard Svip whisper, barely audible to me through the crackle of flames, "What is this place?"

Merry's voice came in answer, half-choked by the smoke or by tears. "It was here where Théoden King fell. And – and where Éowyn killed the Black Rider – and that thing he rode."

Éomer rejoined us, riding first to Faramir and me. He told us quietly, "The Lord your father gave his permission this morning for us to bury my uncle's Snowmane, here where horse and rider fell. I would we had moved that foul beast further from Snowmane's howe. But the stench was such that none could abide long enough to move it."

We rode on, following the Road up the gentle slope atop which sits the White Tree Inn.

Outside the courtyard of the inn were gathered the Lords and Captains of Gondor, all those who yet survived.

They stood clustered in small groups, in quiet-voiced discussions which broke off as our party rode nigh. The Lord Steward turned to face us, cutting short his conversation with Lord Duinhir of Morthond and Prince Imrahil.

Húrin Keeper of the Keys and Master Peregrin Took stood a few feet behind the Steward. Pippin smiled in delight and took one step toward us. He remembered himself, then, and stood again more or less at attention, but his glance wandered time and again to Merry and the rest of us.

Aragorn stood a good distance from the Lord Denethor, near to his tents and beneath the spreading oak where last evening had taken place his encounter with the Steward of Gondor. With him stood Mithrandir and two black haired and grey cloaked warriors, whom I supposed must be the Sons of Elrond. The banner of the King still stood before Aragorn's tent – a sight that would be sticking in my father's craw, as Aragorn must know as well as I. But the Dúnadan at least wore no tokens of kingship about him, apart from the Sword of Elendil at his belt.

Surprise and anger flashed across Aragorn's face as his gaze lit upon my brother. I wondered if the Northman would take us to task for Faramir's early departure from his sickbed. But Aragorn collected himself in time, and merely bowed.

_A good thing, too_, I thought, glancing at the Steward again as I dismounted and handed over the reins to one of Éomer's Men. It would get this council of ours off to an ill-favoured start, did we begin it with Steward and Chieftain snarling at each other over how best to guard Faramir's health.

I thought I heard a gasp of pain from Faramir as he dismounted. For an instant, he leaned against his horse's neck. Anyone not standing next to him might not have seen the gleam of sweat on his brow, but no one could have failed to notice the appalling pallor of his face.

Faramir smiled grimly at me while his horse was led away. He reached out with seeming casualness to place a hand on my shoulder. Desperately, his fingers dug in.

I grabbed his arm in return, and whispered to him, "You need to sit down. I'll find a chair for you."

"_No_!" he hissed. "Don't, I'll be fine. Father's watching us."

I turned to face the Lord our father. The look with which he stared at us was cryptic, but I thought I could detect in it some concern. Perhaps it was only my usual wish, to see in our father's actions the care for Faramir's welfare that so often seemed lacking in him. But this time, I was almost certain that the Steward's words spoke of true concern for his younger son.

"If we are assembled then, My Lords," he said, "can there not be found enough chairs for all our company to be seated? We will have little enough comfort in the days ahead. Let us, then, sit while we may. I would not have the Dark Lord's spies report to him that we met in terror, so ready to flee at the first sign of any foeman that we dared not even sit down."

Various captains and attendants set about gathering a collection of folding campstools, supplemented by a few chairs borrowed from the White Tree Inn. I was surprised to see that any of those chairs were yet whole; I'd have expected the enemy to break and burn every scrap of furniture across all the Pelennor, for the sheer joy of destruction. But perhaps here they had been too busy emptying the larder and wine cellar to bother much with the furniture.

Legolas and Gimli had hurried off in the quest for chairs, and when they returned they took their place near Aragorn. Merry jumped down from Svip's back, and in the next moment Svip changed shape, to the usual gasps and exclamations from those few of the captains who had not before witnessed this transformation.

Ignoring all whispers and stares, Svip crossed to Faramir and me. His thundercloud expression was at least temporarily replaced by concern.

"Are you all right?" the water being asked Faramir.

"I am fine, Svip, thank you," said Faramir. "What about you?"

"I'm fine too," Svip muttered. But he would not meet Faramir's eyes nor mine as he said it.

The Steward took his seat, and the rest of us followed.

We were a grim-faced band who sat there in our circle of mismatched chairs, by the Crossroads of the White Tree Inn. Lord Duinhir of Morthond, grey-faced and red-eyed, sat straight as a spear, staring into nothing. I felt a guilty sort of sorrow at seeing him, illogically embarrassed that Faramir and I should be sitting before him alive, while both of his sons lay dead in the White City. Others in that circle were there in the stead of their fallen lords: Captain Penda of Pinnath Gelin, with the look of one who had not slept in a week, and Forlong of Lossarnach's young brother Liudolf, ten stone lighter than his late brother and looking as though he feared he would prove equally unable to measure up to Forlong as a leader.

My father looked around him at all of us. Then he turned to Pippin, hovering at his shoulder. "Be you seated also, Master Peregrin," he said gently. "Those short Hobbit legs have borne you all the way from your Shire; it is no disgrace to you if they could use rest."

With a nervous little bow, Pippin sat down on the ground beside the Steward's chair. At a nod from Éomer, Merry likewise sat by the Horselord's chair. Svip sat by me, huddling against my leg as though our contact could give some protection against whatever troubled him.

I took comfort in that thought, as well. To myself I vowed that as soon as this council ended, I would learn the cause of Svip's troubles, let Svip try to avoid talking of it as he willed.

"My Lords," the Lord Steward began, "we have triumphed on the fields of Pelennor for a day. The hosts of our Enemy are scattered and fled. Almost might we think that Gondor faces peril no more. But all of us must know that this is not so."

He looked grimly about him, cold eyes seeming to pierce into each of us in turn.

"All the East is moving. Of the forces massed at the Black Gate, but one handful has our Foe yet sent forth, many and terrible though that handful may have seemed to us. And though the Nameless One may take a day or two to lick his wounds, no more is he content as before to wile away centuries nursing his dreams of destruction and conquest. The final battle is begun. Once begun, there can be no end save for our annihilation, or his. I need scarcely tell you which of these two has the greater likelihood.

"To us now falls the task of deciding our next move." The Steward's gaze turned to Aragorn and the Wizard, and he permitted himself a malicious smile. "My Lord Mithrandir," he said, "I will be much deceived in you, if you have not an answer to that question. I pray you, then, enlighten us with your wisdom."

Mithrandir glowered as though he would dearly love to see the Lord Steward reduced to ashes. Nonetheless, he kept his voice civil. "I thank you, Lord Denethor," he said. The Wizard rose to his feet and addressed the council.

"The Steward of Gondor speaks true. Hardly has our strength sufficed to beat back the first great assault. The next will be greater. This war, then, is without final hope. Victory cannot be achieved by arms, whether you sit here to endure siege after siege, or march out to be overwhelmed beyond the River. You have only a choice of evils; and prudence would counsel you to strengthen such strong places as you have, and there await the onset; for so shall the time before your end be made a little longer."

There were mutterings at that, and Uncle Imrahil exclaimed in disdain, "Then you would have us retreat to Minas Tirith, or Dol Amroth, or to Dunharrow, and there sit like children on sand-castles when the tide is flowing?"

"That would be no new counsel," Mithrandir replied. "Have you not done this and little more in these decades past?"

I heard one or two gasps and muttered angry comments, but my own anger was rushing in my ears too loudly for me to mark them. I sprang to my feet, and I heard my voice grating out, "You will have to explain yourself, Mithrandir. My wits, no doubt, are too slow to take your meaning. Has our army, then, been doing nothing when it held the forces of darkness back upon the eastern shore? Are they children's games in which the Regiments of the Marches have dallied, that until this very year kept our farmers safe in their fields, the fishermen and merchants free to ply the Great River, and all the people of Minas Tirith and the Southlands free to live without fear? If our poor efforts are so laughable to you, let you try your hand at holding eight hundred miles of frontier and safeguarding all the lives of a kingdom, and tell me then whether you would laugh at us again –"

"Be seated, Boromir," came my father's voice, smoothly cutting through my rant. "I am sure that Lord Mithrandir meant no offence."

I had to clamp my jaws shut on the words I wanted to shout: a request that my father allow me to forcibly remove Lord Mithrandir from our council, and a threat that if Mithrandir dared again to insult my father's rule, I would finish the job that the Balrog began.

Still fuming, I sat down. Faramir put his hand on my arm, and Svip cautiously reached out to take my other hand.

"Forgive the interruption, My Lord," my father went on. "You say to us that victory cannot be achieved by arms. Is it your counsel, then, that we should despair? This conclusion we could have reached without a Wizard's wisdom guiding us."

"It is not my counsel, Lord Denethor," the Wizard answered. "I said victory could not be achieved by arms. I still hope for victory, but not by arms. For into the midst of all these policies comes the Ring of Power, the foundation of Barad-dûr, the hope of Sauron."

There were a few uneasy murmurs, and someone gave a nervous laugh. I confess that a twinge of superstitious dread shot through me as well, to hear the Wizard so freely stating our Enemy's name.

It was a foolish dread, I told myself. For how could we possibly draw Sauron's attention to us any more than it had been drawn already?

Mithrandir ignored the whispers, instead glaring at my father as though seeking to divine his thoughts. By no twitch of expression did the Steward reveal any response to Mithrandir's words.

Mithrandir went on, turning his gleaming eyes now upon each of the council.

"Concerning this thing, My Lords, you know enough for the understanding of our plight, and of Sauron's. If he regains it, your valour is vain, and his victory will be swift and complete: so complete that none can foresee the end of it while this world lasts. If it is destroyed, then he will fall; and his fall will be so low that none can foresee his arising ever again. For he will lose the best part of the strength that was native to him in his beginning, and all that was made or begun with that power will crumble, and he will be maimed for ever, becoming a mere spirit of malice that gnaws itself in the shadows, but cannot again grow or take shape. And so a great evil of this world will be removed.

"Now Sauron knows all this, and he knows that this precious thing which he lost has been found again; but he does not yet know where it is, or so we hope. And therefore he is now in great doubt. For if we have found this thing, there are some among us with strength enough to wield it. That too he knows. Do I not guess rightly, Aragorn, that you have shown yourself to him in the Stone of Orthanc?"

The Wizard turned to Aragorn on those words. The Northman sat forward and said with sombre tones and grim countenance, "I did so, ere I rode from the Hornburg. I deemed that the time was right, and the Stone had come to me for just such a purpose."

"Now here, My Lords," my father put in, "it is my turn to interrupt. I fear that you have lost me with your 'Stone of Orthanc.' Is there a meaning in these words that mere mortals may know?"

His words were succeeded by a pause as tense as lightning in the air. All seemed to hold their breath, awaiting Mithrandir's reply.

At last the Wizard spoke. "If the Men of Gondor do not entirely disdain the lore of their past, then all of you should know of the _palantíri_, the Seven Seeing Stones brought by Elendil from Númenor, once the far-seeing eyes of Gondor's kings. Some of you may account these mere fable. But fable they are not, and alas, neither are all of them lost. One at least, doubtless the Stone of Minas Ithil, is now in Sauron's grasp. Another remained in Orthanc, where Elendil had placed it. It was perhaps the search for this Stone that took Saruman to Orthanc at the first, although to our grief, only far too late did any of us perceive this. Be that as it may, Saruman found the Stone, and through it greatly did he increase his power. But so also did he create unwittingly a link between himself and Sauron, a link through which our great Enemy at length bent Saruman to his will."

Silence followed, while the most of us sought to take that in. My father was the first to speak, leaning forward and gazing keenly at Aragorn. "And this, My Lords," he said, "is the Stone that you now tell us Lord Aragorn has used? Should we not then fear that the Captain of the Dúnedain may be under Sauron's sway, even as was the unfortunate Saruman?"

Exclamations of shock and protest sounded from several of the assembly, the two voices that I recognised out of the general upsurge being those of Éomer and of Gimli.

Aragorn stood, silencing the protests of his supporters with a solemn, noble glance. "I deemed it my charge and my right, Lord Denethor," Aragorn said calmly. "The _palantír_ of Orthanc, set there by the Kings of Gondor: if any Man have the power to use it without falling under Sauron's sway, it should be the heir of those Kings. So I believed, and so in the event it proved. I spoke no word to him, and in the end I wrenched the Stone to my will. That alone he must find hard to endure. And he beheld me. To know that I live is a blow to his heart, for Sauron has not forgotten Isildur and the sword of Elendil. Now in the hour of his great designs the heir of Isildur and the Sword re-forged are revealed. He is not so mighty that he is above fear, and in that fear has he struck out against us. It was then ten days since the Ring-bearer went east from Rauros, and the Eye of Sauron, I thought, should be drawn out from his own land. Too seldom has he been challenged since he returned to his Tower. Though if I had foreseen how swift would be his onset in answer, maybe I should not have dared to show myself. Bare time was given me to come to your aid."

Anger had been rising within me as Aragorn spoke. Faramir saw that, for his grip tightened on my arm. Svip's hand clutched more tightly around mine. But at those last few words of Aragorn's speech, I tore myself free of them and leapt once more to my feet.

"Are we to understand, My Lord," I raged, "that we have you to thank for the assault we have just endured? Is it because you thumbed your nose at the Lord of Barad-dûr that fields and farmsteads are burned, that thousands of our people lie dead, that the King of Rohan and nine of his captains, and lords of Morthand, Lossarnach and Pinnath Gelin are slain? You tell us it is your reckless posturing that sealed their doom, and yet we are to see _you_ as a Man worthy to be our king?"

The cat was truly among the pigeons then. Half, at least, of those present were suddenly on their feet, shouting at once. Faramir grasped my shoulders and struggled to turn me to face him, yelling some presumably calming words that I did not heed. One of the two Elven brothers started toward me from Aragorn's side, only to be grabbed and held back by Aragorn.

Aragorn's voice cut through the shouting of the rest, and at length all fell silent to hear him. "You may well ask those questions, Boromir," he said. "You ask of me nothing that I have not also asked myself. Yet remember, when I faced our Enemy in the Stone of Orthanc, his forces were already gathering. Already had they met battle from the Rohirrim at Helm's Deep, already had they set forth for Cair Andros and for Osgiliath. My actions did not create these attacks. But it may be that I drove Sauron to act the sooner, before all his strength was gathered. The hasty stroke goes oft astray, and mayhap we had met odds more overwhelming still, had we left Sauron to await the time of his own choosing."

I felt bitter hatred for Aragorn in that moment, a hatred mixed with equal measures of sorrow. Heavily I said, "That consideration will bring scant comfort to the families of those who perished in these assaults."

Many others started speaking, but it was Lord Duinhir of Morthond whose voice carried over the rest. "The battle was coming," he said. "If it found us not fully ready, would we have been any the more prepared in another week, or in two? If in truth the strike came before the Foe was prepared in full, then for that we should be grateful. But I am mistaken in the purpose of this council, if we are here to squabble over past actions. If we are not here to take counsel for the future, then I cannot but think that we are wasting each other's time."

No answer could be made to that. Lord Duinhir's words were sense; and if he with his slain sons held no grudge against Aragorn for hastening the Enemy's assault, what right then had I to nurse such a grudge?

I bowed to Duinhir and sat down. A moment later, Aragorn did the same.

As the council found their seats again, I glanced over at my father. A faint smile played at his lips as his gaze passed over our assembled captains.

The voice of Éomer of Rohan called us back to the discussion I had interrupted. "I do not understand these things," he said, frowning. "You say the Dark Lord has seen the Heir of Isildur and the Sword re-forged, and he fears Lord Aragorn may have the Ring. How, then, did he dare the attack? All is vain for us, you say, if he has the Ring. Why should he not then think it vain to assail us, if we have it?"

"He is not yet sure," Mithrandir answered, "and we could not learn to wield the full power all in a day. Indeed it can be used by one master alone, not by many; and he will look for a time of strife, ere one of the great among us makes himself master and puts down the others.

"He is watching. He sees much and hears much. His Nazgûl are still abroad. They passed over this field ere the sunrise, though few of the weary and sleeping were aware of them. He studies the signs: the Sword that robbed him of his treasure re-made; the winds of fortune turning in our favour, and the defeat unlooked-for of his first assault; the fall of his great Captain.

"His doubt will be growing, even as we speak here. His eye is now straining towards us, blind almost to all else that is moving. So we must keep it. Therein lies all our hope. This, then, is my counsel. We have not the Ring. In wisdom or great folly it has been sent away to be destroyed, lest it destroy us. Without it we cannot by force defeat his force. But we must at all costs keep his Eye from his true peril. We cannot achieve victory by arms, but by arms we can give the Ring-bearer his only chance, frail though it be."

The Wizard's burning gaze came to rest for a moment on my father and on me, as though he dared us to voice some protest against his plan. He declared, "As Aragorn has begun, we must go on. We must push Sauron to his last throw. We must call out his hidden strength, so that he shall empty his land. We must march out to meet him at once. We must make ourselves the bait, though his jaws should close on us. He will take that bait, in hope and in greed, for he will think that in such rashness he sees the pride of the new Ringlord: and he will say: 'So! He pushes out his neck too soon and too far. Let him come on, and behold I will have him in a trap from which he cannot escape. There I will crush him, and what he has taken in his insolence shall be mine again for ever.'

"We must walk open-eyed into that trap, with courage, but with small hope for ourselves. For, My Lords, it may well prove that we ourselves shall perish utterly in a black battle far from the living lands; so that even if Barad-dûr be thrown down, we shall not live to see a new age. But this, I deem, is our duty. And better so than to perish nonetheless – as we surely shall, if we sit here – and to know as we die that no new age shall be."

We sat in silence, the silence of Men without hope. Svip huddled closer to me and once more clutched my hand. I looked around at the others, their faces bearing grim smiles, dark frowns or looks of despair. Looking to Faramir, I saw him watching me, warily seeking the signs that I might be building toward another explosion.

"What do you think?" I whispered to him.

My brother frowned. Then he whispered back, "I think it is the only course. Isn't it?"

"Damn it to hell," I muttered. "I'm afraid it probably is."

"Then how say you, My Lords?" our father's voice rang out. "You have heard the counsel of Lord Mithrandir. Has any other Man counsel that he would bring? And if not, will you follow the words of the Wizard, or no?"

No one spoke. Grimly we eyed each other, but all our grim looks did nothing to come up with another plan.

At last Aragorn said, "For myself, as I have begun, so will I go on. We come now to the very brink, where hope and despair are akin. To waver is to fall. Nonetheless I do not claim to command any Man. Let others choose as they will."

One of the two Elf Lords, identical to his brother save for a fresh, livid scar that this one bore across his right cheek, spoke up. "From the North we came with this purpose," he said, "and from Elrond our father we brought this very counsel. We will not turn back."

"If this expedition is the will of this council," said Uncle Imrahil, "then Dol Amroth will not be behind-hand. Better far to make some attempt, desperate though it be, than to hide trembling beneath our beds awaiting the end."

"Rohan will ride with you," Éomer agreed. "To the Lords Mithrandir and Aragorn our people owe greater debts than Man can repay. If this is the path they follow, then that is enough for me."

One by one, the Lords and Captains voiced their assent. It was a wonder to me that my father did not put forth some alternate plan, for following a plan espoused by Aragorn and the Wizard must have been bitter to him, indeed. But then when I thought of it, it was perhaps not so strange after all. Perhaps, I thought, this plan served my father's purposes as fully as though he had concocted it himself.

There was little doubt that Aragorn and Mithrandir both would set forth with this forlorn hope into Mordor. Thus would my father be freed, for the moment at least, from finding them ever underfoot. And he could hope with good likelihood of fulfillment that Isildur's Heir and the Wizard both would be killed.

If we met the defeat that was all but certain, then the deaths of us all would spare him from dealing more with these two whom he so loathed. And while there was still one spark of hope, what better course than for him to cheerfully send Aragorn and Mithrandir forth? If fortune smiled on my father, they would foil the Dark Lord and get themselves killed into the bargain.

I did not notice that all of the Captains save Faramir and myself had spoken, until Faramir said firmly, "I can see no other choice, My Lord. I will go in command of the troops that Minas Tirith contributes to this venture, if that is your will."

Startled, I turned to my brother, only barely holding back my demand to know what the hell he was thinking, when just this morning he had arisen from what was very nearly his deathbed.

"I thank you, Faramir," said our father, "and gladly will I accept your offer, since the conditions of your brother's return constrain him to remain near to the Great River. And what say you, Boromir? Have you aught to contribute to our plans?"

The contribution I wanted to make was to yell myself blue in the face at the Lord Steward, for blithely including my wounded brother in an expedition that anyone could see was doomed. But, I reminded myself, we were all of us doomed, anyway. Death in Mordor or in Minas Tirith would be death just the same.

"I can offer no better course," I said. "Yet I would counsel that we do not wholly discard prudence, much though Lord Mithrandir may deride that homely virtue. Let us take care that in our enthusiasm for this frail hope we do not send forth each and every one of our fighting Men, and leave Gondor herself unguarded. While there is yet the slimmest chance of victory, it is our duty still to preserve our country, as it has always been."

Mithrandir heaved a sigh. "I do not tell you to cast prudence to the winds, My Lord Boromir," he said. "It is not my counsel to leave the City all unmanned. The force that we lead east need not be great enough for any assault in earnest upon Mordor, so long as it be great enough to challenge battle. And it must move soon. With your permission, Lord Denethor, I would ask of the Captains: what force could we muster and lead out in two days at the latest? They must be hardy Men that go willingly, knowing their peril."

So our council moved toward its end, while each of us tallied up the Men he believed he could field.

Aragorn reported that another four thousand Men could be expected from the southern coast, troops under Angbor of Lamedon who had been too many to fit in the captured ships of the corsairs. Here I bit my tongue, and did not allow myself to voice the observation that those were another four thousands who might have reached the City before it was besieged, had Lord Aragorn not seen fit to show himself in the Stone of Orthanc.

With the expectation of those four thousands, the division of our forces fell out thus:

Seven thousands were to set forth in two days' time. The most of them would be on foot, for all reports of the razor-sharp rocks and belching fire pits of Mordor told us that horses should likely fare worse there even than Men.

Aragorn would lead one half of the Men expected from the south. Faramir would command three and half thousands, a force consolidated from our regular troops, the Ranger regiments and the foot soldiers of the Outlands. Éomer would lead one thousand of his Rohirrim, the half on foot and half on horse. There would be another unit of five hundred horse under the command of Prince Imrahil, the combined cavalries of Minas Tirith, Dol Amroth, and Aragorn's northern Rangers.

For the defence of the City would remain the main strength of the Rohirrim who were yet horsed and able to fight, three thousands of them under the command of Marshal Elfhelm; and the other two thousands from the coast whose arrival Aragorn promised.

So we reckoned. The Lord Steward rose from his chair, bidding all of us to set about the business we had now before us. As the assembly began to disperse, a sudden loud laugh from Uncle Imrahil caused everyone to stop and stare at him.

"Surely," he exclaimed, "this is the greatest jest in all the history of Gondor! That we should march with seven thousands, scarce as many as the vanguard of the army in the days of its power, to assail the mountains and the impenetrable gate of the Black Land! So might a child threaten a mail-clad knight with a bow of string and green willow! If the Dark Lord knows so much as you say, Mithrandir, will he not rather smile than fear, and with his little finger crush us like a fly that tries to sting him?"

"No," Mithrandir replied, "he will try to trap the fly and take the sting. And there are names among us that are worth more than a thousand mail-clad knights apiece. No, he will not smile."

"Neither shall we," observed Aragorn. "If this be jest, then it is too bitter for laughter." His voice took on the ringing tones of one rallying his troops, while he obdurately ignored the irritated glare that the Steward was aiming at him. "Nay," he declared, "it is the last move in a great jeopardy, and for one side or the other it will bring the end of the game."

Aragorn then drew his re-forged sword and held it aloft, where its blade sparkled as it caught the morning sunlight. Addressing his sword he cried, "You shall not be sheathed again until the last battle is fought."

I stared at Isildur's Heir, and I was hard pressed to restrain myself from following in my uncle's footsteps and breaking out in laughter.

Leaning close to Faramir, I whispered, "Now, that is one stupid thing to say."

Faramir cast a startled glance at me. "What is?" he hissed back.

Aragorn had by now lowered his sword and handed it over to one of his Rangers. I smirked, "Is he telling us he'll carry his sword unsheathed all the way to Mordor? He's going to cut himself on it, if he isn't careful."

Now the look that Faramir turned my way suggested that he wished I'd stayed dead. He whispered, "Boromir, for heaven's sake …"

"Scabbards were invented for a reason, you know."

My brother hissed, "Will you behave yourself!"

"I _am_ behaving myself. You don't want to know what this council would have been like if I hadn't been."

"You're right, I don't."

Both of us suddenly noticed our father's gaze turned in our direction. The Lord Steward inquired mildly, "Have you something to add to our discussion?"

"No, sir," we both said, almost in unison. Faramir was blushing furiously. The sound of a stifled laugh drew my eyes to Húrin Keeper of the Keys, whom I saw quickly cover his mouth to hide a smile as he looked at us.

Our father cleared his throat, and if I was not much mistaken, there were traces of a smile on his face and in his voice, as well. "Let us not dally, My Lords," said he, "lest Lords Aragorn and Mithrandir accuse us of sitting on our hands and not bestirring ourselves enough in taking the fight to the Enemy."

I looked down at Svip, who was still sticking near as close to me as though he were strapped to my leg. "If you will excuse us from attending on you for an hour or so, sir," I said to the Steward, "Svip and I should go to the River."

The Lord Steward eyed me in sudden concern, as though he feared I might drop down dead in that instant. "Yes, of course," he said quickly. To camouflage that moment of weakness, he announced in brisk tones, "Boromir and Faramir, Imrahil, Húrin, My Lord Éomer: let you join me in two hours' time at the conference chamber in the White Tower, that we may further discuss the division of our troops."

As our father strode to where attendants waited with the horses, with Húrin and Pippin in his wake, I turned to Faramir.

"_Now_ what do you think you're doing?" I hissed. "Here you are, more dead than alive, and you volunteer to go traipsing off into Mordor?"

Infuriatingly, he smiled. "You sound like Éomer," he observed. "I assure you, brother, I have no intention of traipsing."

I began, "You know what I mean –"

Faramir interrupted me, suddenly turned very serious. "If I hadn't volunteered, he would have volunteered me. I have to do this, Boromir. He'd make my life not worth living, if I didn't."

"Damnation," I groaned. As I had so many times before, I wanted desperately just to knock my father and brother's heads together. Turning back from the impossible, I tried for something that might at least have a chance. "You promised me you'd have a lie down after the council," I said. "Will you at least do that for a few minutes, before this next blasted conference?"

"I will," he said solemnly. "Now will you get going? You two have got to get to the River."

Svip changed back into horse form. From the crossroads we set out along the Harlond Road. Svip's steps were little faster than plodding, and he held to his uncharacteristic silence.

"You had us worried about you," I told him, trying to keep my voice light as I said it.

"You've got Faramir worried about you," my friend the horse replied. "And your father. And you and your father are worried about Faramir. Everyone's worried about someone."

I wasn't quite certain what he meant by all of that, or if his comments were observations, plain and simple. I said, "It is better than not having anyone to worry about. Or having no one to worry about you."

"Maybe," Svip said.

Svip picked up his pace, and we took the rest of the way to the Harlond at a steady canter. The docks and alleyways of Waterfront were as busy that morn as they would be on any ordinary day, but the activity all was clean-up from the battle, not the docks' usual bustle of commerce. Guildsmen and soldiers hammered boards into place over shattered windows and collected into carts the few remaining corpses. A few of our boats that had survived, and some of the smaller vessels of Aragorn's pirate flotilla, were being used to tow across the River the burned wrecks of our fishing and merchant fleets. Along the far shore, at the current's edge, the wrecks were scuttled and sunk, where with luck they might, in turn, waylay any enemy craft heading across the River in a future assault.

On the deck of a large and brightly-painted pirate vessel I saw Raðobard of the Merchant Adventurers, seemingly inspecting the ship. He turned at the sound of Svip's hoofbeats, and waved to us. I waved back before alighting from Svip and hurrying toward our now-usual jetty.

Svip returned to his normal form. He did not wait for me as he ran down the steps and dived into the water. I doffed my outer garments and followed after.

When I came back to the surface after my initial dive, I found Svip close by me, watching me with a solemn gaze that seemed close to tears. I realized that I could not recall ever seeing him cry, through all that we had been through together. I wondered if, indeed, his people cried.

I asked, "Shall we race across the River and back?"

"All right," Svip said, still with no brightening of the look upon his face.

We were neck-and-neck throughout our plunge across the current. Svip reached the quay-wall again scarce one length of his body ahead of me, although I would not be surprised to learn that he had held back his pace to make me feel better about my own performance.

Together we sat upon our usual staircase, I with the waterline across my chest and Svip with the water up to his neck.

Silently he gazed up at me, and at last I said, "Will you tell me now what is troubling you?"

He sank down a little, and I wondered if he would submerge himself entirely. But he stopped with his head still above the water. Staring out into the River's course, he said, "Finn died last night."

"Finn?" I murmured, caught entirely by surprise. I thought of the Man of Minas Tirith as I had last seen him, on the day of the siege, singing to the accompaniment of his lute while Nazgûl wheeled screaming through the lightless sky above. "What happened to him?" I asked.

"You know he was with the firefighters," Svip said.

I nodded. I knew, it of course. It was I who had sent him there.

"They said a roof beam fell on him, in one of the burning houses. He wasn't killed at the first, but the Healers said he didn't wake up at all, before – before he died." Svip's words paused for a moment, then he hurried on, without looking at me, "I went to the wall last night and got back his lute from where I left it. I gave the lute to Captain Cirion; he said he'd get it to Finn's family. Did you know that Thorolf is going to be all right? He's awake; I talked with him this morning. The Healers said they'd given up hope for him, it was so long since he'd spoken in his sleep, but Lord Aragorn got to him in time. But Lord Aragorn couldn't do anything for Finn. Maybe his healing only works for the dark sleep – not for getting hit by a burning roof."

Svip looked up at me at last, the sorrow in his eyes seeming all the more painful for the lack of tears. "I can't bring him back," he said. "I don't have any silverweed. I don't think it would help if I did. I brought him back once already; I don't know what would happen if I did it again. I think – I think it would be something awful."

"He wouldn't want you to bring him back again, anyway," I said quietly. "He said as much, when we were escaping from the harbour at Cair Andros. He was joking, I know, but Men joke of the most serious of things. He said it wouldn't be worth it, bringing him back again, since it caused so much trouble the first time."

Svip said, his voice of a sudden rising almost to a shout, "I don't know if it was worth it bringing him back at all! What good was it, if he was still going to die?"

"It was worth it, Svip," I insisted. "You gave him time to see his home again. You gave him a few more days of life with his friends, and a chance to fight again for the salvation of his City. It was worth it."

"I don't know," said Svip.

I raised my hand out of the water, and rubbed River water over my face. Then I held my hand out to Svip. He gazed at it for a moment in deliberation, then hesitatingly he reached from the water to place his hand in mine, and scrambled upward to sit on a higher step.

Gazing down at my friend, I thought of how new all of this must be to Svip. It was yet under a month since Svip and I had met, and since I took him from his home into the world of Men, the world of death and loss.

Almost it was as though Svip were a child meeting death for the first time.

I thought back, remembering what it had been like for me. I could still very clearly recall my father's strained and grief-shaken voice, as he sought to explain to me my grandfather's death. Far more vague, were my recollections of me trying to explain to Faramir about death, in those first black days when our mother was gone.

I'd not really had to have such a conversation again since then. My son had been so far progressed into his own illness when his mother died, that I'd not had to speak of it with him. There'd been nothing I could do but to hold him, telling him fairy tales and hoping that he could hear me.

But now, I thought, it was as if Findemir had survived to grow to adulthood, somehow without ever encountering death. And how much worse must it be for Svip, to face for the first time the loss of people for whom he cared, when he had dwelt upon this Middle Earth for thousands of years?

"Svip," I said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I brought you into our world to face this. Men have to deal with this, with losing those we love, all through our lives. We grow used to it, I suppose, even though it never ceases to hurt. I'm sorry you have to deal with it now. Tell me, didn't you face somewhat of the same thing, when you parted from your mother?"

Svip tilted his head in thought. "Maybe a little," he said. "But not really. It was lonely, at first, not having anyone to talk to. But it was better, you know – because I was old enough then that if I'd stayed, we'd just have killed each other over territory." Looking up at me with a sort of desperate wondering, he asked, "How do you do it? How do you learn to keep living, when people die?"

Ruefully I thought, _Svip, you have just asked the one great question of life_.

"It's not easy," I said. "Sometimes we never really do manage it. But – you just have to be grateful that the person lived at all. That they were given any time to be happy, and to love. And you have to hope that they are happy again, wherever their spirits are."

Svip whispered, "Do you believe they really are somewhere?"

"Yes," I said. "Where, I don't know for certain. But I believe it."

"I hope so," Svip said.

He took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders and forcing his expression into a look of determination. He asked me, "What can I do now?"

I thought on that for a moment. "Well," I said, "working to help those who are still alive, sometimes lets you think with less pain of those who are not. You have skills with healing and herb-lore; as great, I'm sure, as any of our Healers. Would you like, do you think, to work with them? Perhaps it would help you. It would certainly be of help to them."

Svip considered that. "Yes," he said finally. "All right. Maybe it will help."

"I'll introduce you formally to the Warden of the Houses, and give my recommendation that they take you on as an assistant. There will be plenty to do, especially now that the dark sleep is vanquished. They'll be moving all those less seriously wounded from my townhouse back to the Houses of Healing, that the Healers need not be spread over two locations. So you can help with the move, and I'm sure there'll be no shortage of work after that."

Svip nodded. He said again, firmly, "All right."

I squeezed his hand, then reluctantly I got to my feet. "We'd best be getting back," I said, "so I can make your introductions before this next meeting with my father. You have to promise me two things," I went on, as I headed up the staircase with Svip hastening beside me. "You're not to work so hard that you forget to sleep. You have to promise me that you'll go back to the Fountain every night. And I want you to meet me at dawn every morning, so we can go to the River."

Svip surged up into horse form while I was putting on my outer tunic. He said, "I promise."

The day passed with little else requiring detail in this chronicle. I presented Svip to the Chief Healer, as I had said. The meeting with my father and the captains, I spent plotting ways to get my brother back to his sickbed where he belonged. Faramir did not, of course, go to his bed as immediately as I thought he should. But at last I talked him into returning to his townhouse while I filled in for him in overseeing the readying of his troops.

Other business was now also to hand. Our scouts brought word that another force of the enemy, those whom the Rohirrim had spotted from afar in their wild ride from Rohan's plains, was still encamped north of the City.

Clearly this force had been sent by their Black Captain to block the path of any such reinforcement from Rohan. Now having failed in that task, I could imagine that their commanders must be torn between steering well clear of us on the long road back to Mordor, and trying their own assault on the City, when perhaps our guard might be down, now that we had survived the first attack.

We agreed amongst us that it would be needless recklessness to send the host from Minas Tirith, with this enemy lurking yet unfought so close upon us. We determined that the force of Rohirrim who were to stay in defence of the City, under command of Elfhelm the Marshal, should ride that very day against our lingering foe, while those who were to march for Mordor continued preparation for their departure.

I, too, to my relief, had a task in which I could busy my hands and my mind, determined upon in that day's consultation with my father: the re-fortification of Osgiliath. The ferries and boat-bridges that the enemy had used in their attack could be turned now to our own use. With the foe for the moment fled, we had the opportunity to put up again some defensive works upon the eastern shore, as well as re-strengthening our shattered defences upon the west.

This command, my father and I agreed, would be mine – a task that would place me closer to the Great River, as well as giving me some work of use, even though I could not ride with our armies to Mordor.

Late in that afternoon I visited the Houses of Healing. For that little time, it silenced in me all voices of dread about the future, when I talked with so many of our Men in the wards, who the day before had seemed all in the clutches of the grave.

Thorolf Son of Eyjolf apologised ruefully for getting himself wounded and obliging us to haul him all the way from Cair Andros. The rumour of my visit reached Svip, then working in another ward, and the water creature came scurrying up to us while I was talking with Thorolf.

Svip looked to me in question at the wounded Ranger's request that Svip sit with him a while and tell him all that had been happening since our escape from Cair Andros. I assured Svip that talking with the patients was an important part of his duties. I left them with Svip perched on Thorolf's bed. His long green face was still solemn, but he spoke with much of his old eagerness as he launched into the story of our battles.

The duty that I performed that evening and long into the night, was among the bleakest that any commander must face. Those hours I spent in penning the letters of condolence that had been grimly mounting in numbers throughout the days past. Among these was the letter that I had promised back at Cair Andros, to Branwyn Daughter of Frithjof, whose husband Lothar had died on the wall of the island fortress. There was also now among them the letter to Simbelmynë, Finn's wife.

I supposed that Branwyn Daughter of Frithjof must likely still be far from home, gone in the evacuation of City to stay with relatives or friends, even as had Simbelmynë and her sons.

How many others, I thought, would return home to letters such as I was writing now, to dark and quiet houses in which they would never again welcome home the Men that they loved?

At dawn the next morning, Svip kept faithfully to our bargain, bounding down the road from the Citadel even as I stepped from my courtyard gate. To my satisfaction, I noted that his tunic was dripping, indicating that he had, at least, spent some time in the Fountain, as he'd promised.

My friend was still quieter than his wont, but he did not seem so painfully burdened down as he had the day before. I could only hope that this progress would continue – and hope against hope that there would not soon come other deaths to burden his heart again.

When we returned to the City, the morning breeze drying all too soon my River-soaked clothes, Svip and I parted on the Fifth Level. He hurried onward to return to the Houses of Healing, while I stopped before the Fifth Level's tunnel, at Faramir's townhouse.

Far from lying obediently tucked into bed, my little brother was on his feet and was just finishing getting dressed when I arrived.

I leaned against his bedroom door and glowered at him while he hastily combed his hair. I grumbled, "I vow that you must be the worst patient ever. Can't you _ever_ stay in bed as you are told?"

Faramir raised an eyebrow at me and retorted, "I don't intend to be carried to Mordor on a litter, you know. If I'm riding to battle tomorrow, I had better get used to staying upright."

"You had half of yesterday to practice it; that should have been enough." Sighing, I stepped aside and opened the door for him, then I followed him through into the hallway. "Where are you off to now? I'm sure Anborn can manage things perfectly well, without you hanging over his shoulder looking like death."

"I'm sure he can," said Faramir, "which is why I am not rushing to get to him. I thought I would go to pay our family's respects to Lady Éowyn. She is our kin, after all, and none of us have yet been to the Houses to visit her."

"Oh. That's a good idea," I admitted. "I'll go along with you."

Faramir cast me a look of disgust. "You're as transparent as crystal. Why don't you just say 'I'll come along to catch you if you faint?'"

"Well, that's a good idea, too."

We made our way through the streets and the tunnel, a bit more slowly than Faramir's usual pace. He did look improved from the day before; there was more colour in his face, and he seemed a good deal steadier upon his feet. Perhaps he might _almost_ be well enough to undertake this journey, though not as well, by far, as he wished me to believe.

"I know the answer to this, I suppose," I said. "There is no way at all to convince you not to go on this damned diversion?"

"You do know the answer," said he. "There is no way at all. Look, Boromir," he went on, "it makes absolute sense for me to go. One of our family has to. It should not be Father, he has the City's care to see to – and he and Mithrandir would be at each other's throats all the way to the Black Gate. And it cannot be you. I am glad to go; it will give me the chance to learn more of Lord Aragorn, so I can make a more educated choice if the time does come when he presses his claim to the throne. You've already spent a journey in his company; you've had time to study and form your opinions of him. I haven't, and I'm glad of the chance."

"Then you're not yet certain," I asked him, in some surprise, "that he is our rightful king?"

"I know what my dreams told me, when I awoke," he said quietly. "They told me that I had been lost in horror and shadows, and that the King had called me to wake. I know what my dreams told me, but there is more to life than dreams. If I am to stand as one of the Council, and make the decision to hail him as King or no, then I must make that choice with more knowledge behind it than the words of dreaming."

"Faramir – I haven't had time to tell you of this yet. We should talk of it, before you set out. Father has told me lately of his past encounter with Aragorn; you should know of it, too. You haven't spoken with Father about Aragorn, have you?"

"Just how stupid do you think I am? No, I have not spoken with Father about him. I would do just as well to hold a debate with him about Mithrandir." He smiled at me, in melancholy tinged with amusement. "Fear not, Boromir. I am not about to challenge Father's ire by running through Minas Tirith's streets hailing Aragorn as King."

"That's a relief," I said, only part in jest.

In the Houses of Healing, the clerk at the desk informed us that the Lady Éowyn was walking in the gardens with the Halfling Meriadoc. When we stepped outside again into that realm of gleaming green lawn and the first bright spring flowers, we could see the two whom we sought on one of the far paths, walking slowly away from us. Merry, I could see, wore his livery of Rohan, while the lady was clad in a dark blue gown that seemed impossibly vivid in the sunlight. I exchanged a worried look with Faramir.

"She's as impossible as you are," I said. "If Éomer knows that she is out of her room, he must be tearing out his hair."

Faramir nodded. "Let's hope he's been too busy to find it out."

We followed the marble-paved paths toward them. While we were still a good distance away, Lady Éowyn must have heard our footfalls or sensed a presence behind her. She stopped and turned, and gazed at us for a moment. The lady said something to the Hobbit, who had turned when she did. The two of them stood waiting for us by a pair of carven marble benches.

"Hail to you, Éowyn of Rohan," I said, as we drew near. "And to you, Merry."

Merry smiled, but worry was writ plain upon his face as he glanced quickly up at Lady Éowyn.

Faramir and I bowed, and the lady gave a curtsy in reply. As she did so, the brown knitted shawl that she wore slid off her left shoulder, as did the shoulder of her dress. Trying not to let too much irritation show on her face, Lady Éowyn yanked up dress and shawl, covering again the sling on her arm that had become visible when the shawl fell.

"Hail, Lady," Faramir said. "It rejoices me to see you recovered."

"Thank you, My Lord," she answered, with unsmiling face and sombre gaze. "I rejoice to see you recovered, as well. And you, My Lord Boromir," she continued, "I rejoice to see you alive. All of Rohan sorrowed to hear of your death."

I bowed again, and replied, "As does all of Gondor at the loss of Prince Théodred and Théoden King."

"I thank you," she murmured. Her gaze dropped for a moment, then she looked up once more and turned her solemn grey eyes to Faramir. "You are well then, Lord Faramir?" she asked. "I heard that you had suffered grievous hurt."

"Not so grievous as many suffered. I thank you; I am well enough," he said.

Éowyn nodded. She said, "It is so also with me."

She glanced down at Merry, who was still looking worried. Turning back to us, she said with a ghost of a smile, "Your arrival is well-timed, My Lords. I have just been debating with Merry whether I should send to you, entreating you to visit me."

"You should not hesitate again, Lady," I said, "if we can be of any service to you."

Again she nodded. "Will you sit?" she offered, gesturing to the benches near at hand.

The benches marked two sides of a small patio, a third side taken up by a rose bush mantled with its first new green leaves of the year. Lady Éowyn sat on one bench with Merry, whose feet could not quite scrape the ground, while Faramir and I took the other.

As Éowyn sat, the neckline of her dress must have shifted again. She tugged at it and then gave us a pained little smile.

"My brother insisted on purchasing new dresses for me here in your City," she said. "I forbade him to send any seamstresses to fuss about me, so he had to content himself with a few ready-made from the dressmakers' shops – which do not entirely fit. I have, of course, only myself to blame. Dame Ioreth lent me this shawl, for which I am deeply grateful to her. Forgive me, My Lords; I am certain you did not come here to discuss my clothing."

"If you will allow it, My Lady," I said, "I believe we could undertake to find a dressmaker who would make the necessary alterations, while yet not fussing over you."

She answered, "I thank you, Lord Boromir," forcing another smile to her face while again fidgeting with the neckline and then pulling the shawl closer about her. "If I remain long in the City, I will avail myself of your offer."

Faramir asked solemnly, not allowing himself to be mired in any small-talk about dresses, "Will you tell us, Lady, why it was you wished to send for us?"

The lady's expression grew grimly serious. Merry frowned and looked about to speak, but then he thought better of it.

"I will, Lord," Éowyn answered. "There is a great boon that I would seek of you. I ask, My Lords, that you intercede for me with the King my brother – and if need be, with the Lord Aragorn. My brother has forbidden me to ride with the Éored, when our armies set forth for Mordor upon the morrow. I know I may not look it now," she added with some bitterness, "but I rode from Dunharrow as a warrior of Rohan, and my deeds upon the battlefield are not lessened by the fact that a woman wrought them. Éomer will listen to you," she went on, hurriedly. "I ask this of you as my kinsmen, and as fellow soldiers. You are both experienced commanders. You would not leave a trained and skilled warrior here to sicken in sloth, who is well and able and longing again to fight for the sake of our countries?"

I glanced unhappily at Faramir, and he at me. Faramir was the first to speak.

"We do not deny your great deeds, Éowyn Daughter of Éomund," was his quiet-voiced reply, "nor your training and skill. Yet, as commanders, we must ask the same of you that we would ask of any other warrior. Are you indeed, then, well and able to return to battle, as you say?"

She answered firmly, but a blush rose to her cheeks, seeming to give the lie to her words. "I am healed," she said, "healed at least in body, save my left arm only, and that is at ease. But I will sicken anew if I must lie here idle, caged, while the battle rages still."

Merry had been sitting hunched forward on the bench, staring down at his hands. Now he looked up, and cast a look that seemed to be of pleading, at me.

For which side of the case he was pleading, whether to let her go or to forbid her, I had no way of knowing. But I knew as well as Faramir what our answer must be, whether Merry agreed with it, or no.

"And what of your left arm, Lady?" I queried, keeping my voice as gentle as I could. "Even you do not tell us that it is healed. Would you have us send forth a warrior who cannot hold a shield, to be slaughtered in the first clash of armies?"

Her eyes sparked in anger. "I can yet hold a sword," she countered haughtily, "and I can wield it. In this battle, that will be all that matters."

"You do not know that," Faramir put in. "There is still the chance that some of us may live to return. While that chance remains, we cannot send into battle any warriors whose injuries prevent their best hope of defence."

"Can you not, My Lord Faramir?" asked the Lady Éowyn, a dangerous glitter in her gaze. "Not even yourself? Yet I was told that you were wounded but four days ago by a Southron bowman, and that you were healed at near the same time as I."

Faramir gave a rueful smile. "It is true," he said. "But the fact remains that I do not have a broken shield-arm."

"You have a wound that may re-open when you come again into combat. That is not enough, then, to condemn you to idleness, as I am condemned?"

My brother's smile grew more melancholy still. "There is something else, Lady," he said softly. "I have a father and commander who orders my presence on this expedition, while you have a brother and commander who forbids yours."

Merry could hold himself silent no longer. Looking in dread at Éowyn, he burst out to her, "You will not do it, will you?"

For a lengthy moment, the lady neither moved nor spoke. Then, at last, she sighed, her face seeming to turn, of a sudden, as bleak as a winter's sky.

"No, Merry," she said. "If the Sons of Denethor will not intercede for me, then I will not ride from the City in secret. I will not again join the Éored without my King's command."

Merry stared as though stricken at the grimness and sorrow on her face. In that reaction, I felt entirely in sympathy with him. The Hobbit turned desperately to Faramir and me, and demanded, "Isn't there something you can do?"

I looked over at my brother. He was leaning forward suddenly with a new, eager smile.

Faramir said, "You say that you are condemned to idleness. What if you need not be idle? Is riding to battle the only answer that you will accept? Or can your pain be eased through other deeds for the defence of our countries, here in Minas Tirith?"

Warily, the lady eyed him. "If you tell me to bake bread for the troops, My Lord, I will tell you that there are others whose skills are better suited to it, and that a warrior's sword should not be exchanged for a baker's griddle."

"Please believe me," said Faramir, "I was not thinking of baking."

"It is true," I put in, catching Faramir's enthusiasm. "I cannot ride with our armies on the morrow any more than you can, but I will not be taking up baking, nor idling in sloth. There is work here in plenty. Will you accept duty in the guarding of the City, or under my command in the re-fortifying of Osgiliath? In fact," I went on, "let us ask the Lord of the City himself to assign you your duties. Our father is a practical Man; he knows how ill we can afford to leave idle any warrior of skill. If you give me your permission to do so, I will seek audience for you with the Lord Steward, and will go with you to him to pledge my support for your cause." I could not refrain from smiling as I added, "Doubtless Éomer will be aggrieved with us, but he can scarcely order you back to the Houses of Healing if the Steward of Gondor himself has assigned you duty in the defence of the west."

Lady Éowyn's expression was wary still, as she pondered whether the plan was worthy of hope. She asked, "And how if the Lord Steward orders me back to the Houses himself?"

"He will not do so," I said confidently. "But if he does, then no matter. I will assign you command among my officers at Osgiliath, and by the time your brother returns to learn of it and complains to my father, your arm will be healed and these Houses will menace you no more. How say you, Éowyn of Rohan?"

She gave a reluctant smile. She said, "I would hate to be the cause that lures a Steward's Son into rebellion against his father. Yet so black is my dread of languishing here without purpose, that I accept your help, My Lord, even at the risk of fomenting such treason."

She stood, clutching with grim determination to her shawl to hold it in place. The three others of us stood as well, Faramir and I springing to our feet and Merry jumping down from the bench.

Letting go of her shawl, which remained obediently in its place, the Lady Éowyn held out her pale, slender hand. She shook hands with me and then with Faramir. "I thank you for your kindness to me, Lord Boromir," she said. "And you also, Lord Faramir – though I grudge bitterly that you ride to Mordor and I may not."

"Think not too harshly of we who ride without you," Faramir said earnestly. "The road to Mordor would be brighter, did you ride it with us. Yet I will risk your anger and confess that I am thankful you will not be there. The Lord your brother will fight with a lighter heart, without the dread that he must afterward search the battlefield and find you among the fallen. And I," he added, smiling, "will fight with a lighter heart as well, knowing that you will be here to keep my brother out of trouble."

"I would gladly trade places with you, Lord," said Éowyn. "Yet I will undertake to keep the Lord your brother safe, if you will undertake to return to the City in safety – and to bring my brother back with you."

"It is a bargain, Lady."

We left Éowyn and Merry in the garden, I assuring the lady that I would send word to her as soon as I secured our audience with the Steward. Before stepping once more into the corridors of the Houses, black as caverns in contrast to the gardens' sunlight, we stopped to look back. Éowyn and Merry had climbed the steps to the battlement along the garden wall. Merry stood high up in one of the embrasures and the lady leaned upon the parapet, gazing outward to the east.

Faramir said softly, "She is a valiant lady. I hope that you have not promised her more than you can fulfil. It will wound her to the heart, if you cannot secure for her the work for which she longs. She has been wounded too deeply, already."

"When have you known me for an oath-breaker?" I demanded. "Of course I will fulfil my pledge to her. It is true, after all, all that we said – true that we cannot send her forth wounded as she is; true also that we would be fools to let her languish in the Houses when Gondor and Rohan have need of her skill and courage."

Upon leaving the Houses of Healing, we parted ways, Faramir to consult with Lieutenant Anborn on the readying of their troops – ignoring, as always, my obligatory objection that he should retire to his bed – and I to seek out our father and request the Lady Éowyn's audience. In this, I was not immediately successful, for I was informed by my father's seneschal that the Lord Steward was in his chamber at the top of the White Tower. I wrote a note requesting the audience, to be delivered to my father when he descended.

The rest of the daylight hours, I spent at Osgiliath. On the way there and back, I followed the longer route along the Rammas, to remain closer to the River.

I had not wished to interrupt Svip's work at the Houses by asking him to join me. But I confess that it felt odd to me, and a little lonely, to be riding that day a horse with whom I could not maintain a conversation.

When I returned to the White City as evening set in, it was to find everything a-bustle with the recent arrival of the promised troops from Lamedon. They were some two hundreds fewer than had been Aragorn's estimate, but the difference was not great enough to necessitate re-ordering of our plans.

Joyous news also had reached the City by the time I returned from Osgiliath. Elfhelm the Marshal sent messengers ahead of his Riders' return, with the news that the Rohirrim had met the foe upon the Anórien Road. They now had the force of Orcs and Easterlings in full, if straggling, flight.

Harried and scattered by the Rohirrim, they had broken and fled, with little fighting, back toward Cair Andros. With that threat removed and the new strength arriving out of the South, the City was as well manned as we could make it. Our scouts that we had sent across the River were returned with the report that no enemies remained upon the roads east, as far as the Crossroads of the Fallen King.

That crossroad was as far east as I myself had ever gone, except in my childhood fantasies of someday leading our armies into Mordor and throwing down the Dark Lord in single combat. I had to shake off a melancholy that came near to taking hold of me, at the thought that Faramir, Uncle Imrahil, Éomer, Legolas and Gimli, Aragorn, and seven thousands of our Men, all soon would ride beyond those crossroads, past the toppled statue of a long-dead king and into perils that I could never share.

My father had sent word that he would meet with the Lady Éowyn and me next morning after the army's departure, which tidings I sent on to the lady. I dined that night with Faramir at his townhouse. We spoke little of what might lie ahead. Instead, I told Faramir of my interview with our father, when he had revealed to me the tale of Aragorn's sojourn in Gondor as Captain Thorongil.

Faramir listened thoughtfully, commenting seldom. He agreed that he had indeed read of Thorongil in the chronicles and reports of the last days of our grandfather's reign. The sum of his reactions was also much the same as mine. With wonder and regret on his face, he shook his head and murmured, "Valar. No wonder Father hates him. And hates Mithrandir, too."

I nodded. "I don't know what we will do," I confessed, "if the time comes when Aragorn presses his claim. Father will never consider it with anything other than violent opposition. And if the Council is moved by the claim …"

Grimly my brother smiled, and he gave the same answer that I had so often given myself. He said, "I suppose we'll just have to hope we're all killed before it comes to that."

I wished that I could postpone the morrow's partings by talking with Faramir for a few hours longer. But of course the dawn would come, whether we talked all the night, or no. I bade Faramir goodnight, with another iteration of my reminder that he needed his sleep. Then I betook myself to the Citadel, to my chambers in the King's House.

That hallowed name possessed a taunting irony, when I thought of it that night, that it had never held for me before.

I thought, _What if one of our ancestors, at some point over these last thousand years, had seen fit to change the name from King's House to Steward's? Or if, indeed, as I have so often asked my father, we had come to call ourselves no longer stewards, but kings? _

_What if somewhere in those years, we had ceased to maintain that we were waiting for a king's return, if we had taken the leap to ruling in name as well as ruling in fact? _

_If we had ceased to claim that we were awaiting a king, would our king-in-waiting still have returned_?

A goodly stack of reports awaited in my quarters, from Marshal Elfhelm's battle on the Anórien Road, Húrin of the Keys and others preparing the army for its departure, and the scouts who had been patrolling the lands across the River. I had barely sat down and begun to look through the reports, when a knock sounded at my chambers' outer door. At my command to enter, one of my father's servants made his way through the front room, bowed in the doorway and said, "My Lord Boromir, Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn is without, and requests an audience."

My first thought was _What the hell?_ followed immediately by, _That is just what I do not need_. Mentally I grimaced, for already I could hear my father's inevitable accusation that Aragorn and I were conspiring together. But since Father was bound to make those accusations whether I met with Aragorn or not, I might just as well admit him and see what he wanted.

"Send him in," I said. I rose and went to meet my visitor.

The outward appearance of Isildur's Heir had changed from would-be king, back to the travel-worn Ranger he had seemed during our journeying from Rivendell. He stood just inside the door, looking about him with, as I thought, a fair degree of awkwardness. As well he might.

_I would look awkward__, too_, I thought, _if I stood facing a Man in his home that I would be taking from him, when or if the Council declared me King_.

"Come through to the office," I told him. "Will you have wine?"

He hesitated a moment, and I wondered if he were debating with himself how likely I might be to fulfil my father's wishes by attempting to poison him. Then he said, "Thank you, I will."

I collected the bottle and two goblets from the table where they had sat beside my barrel of River water, and I led the way into my office. Returning to my desk, I poured for both of us, then I sat down and gestured for him to do the same. He pulled up the chair with the battle scene from the Last Alliance carved upon it, and sat, still looking decidedly uncomfortable.

For some moments, we sipped our wine in silence. I was about to ask what had prompted his visit, then he began in steady and quiet tones, "We did not have the chance to finish our discussion at the council. You blame me, do you not, for my decision to challenge Sauron in the palantir of Orthanc?"

_That is one thing I do like about him_, I thought, _he does not mince words_.

Openness demanded openness in reply. "I do blame you," I answered. "There is no point in fighting over past choices; we can never know if indeed Sauron attacked before he was ready, and if the assault would have been more dreadful had he had more time to prepare it. But I blame you for taking it upon yourself to make that choice for Gondor, when no decision of this country's Council or her people had given you authority to do so."

He nodded, steadily meeting my gaze. "I understand that," he said. "I ask only that you believe I acted as I believed was best, for the preservation of our country. You may find fault with the choice if you wish, but I would not have you find fault with the motive that led to it."

I studied him and thought, _And how if the motive were only your own pride_? But I supposed that he deserved the benefit of the doubt. I ought to accept that Aragorn loved our country – although it grated on me to hear him speak of Gondor as "ours."

"Very well," I said. "Then I would ask that you extend the same courtesy to me. Know that I acted as I believed was best, for Gondor – throughout the voyage of our Fellowship, and on the day I parted from it, when I tried to take the Ring."

A dark frown crossed Aragorn's brow. That concession clearly was one he felt far from comfortable with making. But at last he said, whether in truth he believed it, or not, "I know that you believed you acted for the best. For Gondor."

In silence we both took temporary refuge in our wine, to avoid having to come up with anything to say. When the silence dragged out long enough to become annoying, I asked him, "You are satisfied that the expedition is ready to depart upon the morrow?"

He nodded briskly. "I am. When I met last with Lord Húrin and the Master of the Armouries they were still in the process of arming and equipping the Men of Lamedon, but they were confident the task would be completed in time for the Men to get sufficient sleep. We will be ready." The Dúnadan's expression became rueful, and he asked, "I suppose there is no chance that you could still convince the Lord your brother not to accompany us?"

"There is none," I said. "He will acquit himself well; you need not fear that, even wounded as he is, he will be any detriment to your mission."

"That I know. Be assured that I meant no offence. But I did not fight to free him from the dark sleep only to see him throw away his life at the first chance he finds!"

For a change, I found myself rather liking Aragorn. "I share your frustration, My Lord," I said. "I fear it is something with which we both have to live. At least we can be thankful that the Lady Éowyn has been dissuaded from going."

"Aye, indeed," Aragorn agreed, with feeling. "At least I shall not have to bear her death on my conscience." In a murmur that was almost too quiet to hear, he added, "Only the deaths of seven thousand others."

"They need not be on your conscience," I said. "It was the choice of all the Captains to send this expedition forth."

"Aye," he muttered grimly, "at my urging and at Mithrandir's. And if it is the wrong choice, then his soul and mine must bear the blame."

"Is there a right choice, in these days?" I asked. "At least you will be with them, and you will die with them if that is what fate decides. You will not be stuck in the City with the womenfolk, with nothing that you can do but to wait and to pray and to fear."

Aragorn took a large swig of his wine. Again, for a moment, we did not speak, then frowning, he asked, "May I speak freely with you, Boromir?"

I will admit to some degree of dubiousness, as I wondered to what topic of conversation we were leading. Nonetheless, I said, "You may. After the perils we have endured in each other's company, I think you need not hesitate to do so."

"Very well," he said, "if you will answer with the same freedom. I have hesitated to ask you this. I know it is no easy position in which you are placed. But still I will ask: where do you stand upon the question of my claim to the throne?"

It was now my turn to swig deeply of my wine. "You could not pick an easy question, could you?" I demanded.

He smiled faintly, but the question was still hanging there, and could not be un-asked.

"I can tell you only the same thing I told my father," I said. "That if the time comes when you state your case to the Council, I will listen with the rest. And whatever may be the choice of the Council, that will also be mine."

His rueful smile was fixed firmly in place, but the disappointment in his voice was all too clear. "It was presumptuous of me. I had hoped that perhaps in the course of our shared adventures, you might have come to look with greater favour on my claim."

Valar, but this was a conversation that I did not want to have.

"I respect you," I said. "I respect your courage and your skills. But do not forget, I was raised to be the ruler of this land. You cannot be surprised that I feel some lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of another Man taking that role – and that Man, one who has spent his life in the four corners of Middle Earth. I know that you, too, have fought to hold the darkness at bay. But yet I would have the Man who might be King of Gondor be one whose life has been spent with our people, sharing their sorrows and joys and fighting at their sides."

"I cannot blame you for that," said Aragorn. "And I should not be surprised. Boromir – forgive me for asking you this. What do you recall of the minutes before your death?"

Now I _knew_ that I did not like where this conversation was headed, even less than I liked where it had been.

"Very little," I answered. "I remember the fight. I remember sliding down against a tree trunk, with arrows in my chest. I remember seeing Pippin and Merry bound and carried off. Then I remember waking up in Svip's home."

Aragorn sighed. "Then you remember nothing of what you said before you died?"

"I don't remember it." _And I jolly well do not want to know, either_, my thoughts added. But yet I said, "Will you tell me?"

He sighed again, and I wanted to swear at him and demand why in blazes he had brought it up, if he did not want to talk about it.

Gazing at the window and the blackness of the night, he spoke quietly, "When I reached the clearing, you were sitting with your back against the tree. Your sword was still in your hand, broken near the hilt. Your horn, cloven in two, lay at your side. Slain Orcs lay piled all about you, twenty of them at the least. I had to climb over some of them to reach you.

"At the first, your eyes were closed. Then you opened them and you spoke. You told me that you'd tried to take the Ring. You said, 'I am sorry. I have paid.' You told me that the Orcs had taken Merry and Pippin. Then you said, 'Farewell, Aragorn. Go to Minas Tirith and save my people.'"

Reluctantly Aragorn tore his gaze away from the window, and looked at me. He continued, "I promised you that Minas Tirith would not fall. You smiled at that. And with that smile, you died."

Passionately I wished that my goblet were not empty, but I did not pour myself another drink. I kept my voice steady with some effort. "I thank you for your words to me then. I am sorry that I do not remember them. But may I ask why you have brought up this subject now?"

With a self-mocking bitterness, he smiled. "Because I am a fool," he said. "Because clearly, like any other Man, I heard what I wished to hear, and read into your words meanings that were not there. I believed that in your charge to me to go to Minas Tirith, lay acceptance of my right as King. I am sorry if I misunderstood you."

"Gods, Aragorn!" I exclaimed suddenly, torn between laughter and weeping and vowing that I would give in to neither. "Did no other possible reading of those words occur to you? It never occurred to you that they might mean, 'I am dying, I can fight for my people no longer, and since I cannot be there to fight for them, I suppose you are better than nothing'?"

In the instant I said them, I regretted my words. Raw pain showed on Aragorn's face before he managed to control his expression.

"No," he said flatly, mouth set in a grim smile. "That reading of your words had not occurred to me." He stood up, and went on, "If you'll excuse me. We have an early start tomorrow."

I jumped to my feet. "I am sorry," I said, cursing myself. "It came out worse than I intended."

"Don't trouble yourself about it," said Aragorn.

"I do thank you for what you said when I was dying," I insisted. "And I thank you for going after the halflings. I thank you for doing what I longed to do but could not." After a moment's pause, I added, "You are still doing so. I thank you still."

He studied my face for another moment, then at last with a faint smile that seemed to hold no anger, he said, "I would that you rode with us tomorrow."

"Aye," I said. "I wish it as well. Aragorn – I am sorry that I cannot give the answer you wished for. I do not say that I oppose your claim. But neither can I commit myself and those who would follow me to its support. I can promise only that I will do all that I can to keep Gondor safe and whole. That is all."

"I know you will do that," said the Northman. "I had no right to expect anything else."

He turned and walked to the door. I walked with him. Aragorn opened the door, then turned and asked me with a smile, "You will look after Merry and Pippin?"

"I will," I said. "And you will look after my brother?"

"I am sure that he does not need looking after. But I will look after him, all the same."

We shook hands at that, and he departed. As soon as the door closed, I crossed to the barrel of River water, drew myself a goblet's worth and then drained it in one go. I drew another goblet-full and took it back with me to my desk.

As I sat down and stared at the reports, I almost felt the pain of three arrows impaling my chest. I almost felt that if I looked down, I would see the bizarre sight of them sticking there, black-feathered fletchings shakily rising and falling with my every anguished breath.

"Minas Tirith will not fall," I whispered to myself.

I wondered if I had believed that, when I died.

I wondered if I could dare to believe it now.

The morn of the army's departure dawned again fair, another bright spring day of clear sky and dancing breeze. When Svip and I took our morning pilgrimage to the River, the troops were already assembling on the plain before the Great Gate.

In subdued, frightened tones, Svip asked me as we made our hurried way to the Harlond, "Do you really think they are going to return?"

"I do not know," was the answer I had to give him. "Logic would say there is very little chance of their victory. Yet there has been little chance for any of us, in any of these recent battles, and somehow we have eked out enough of a victory to go on. They may come back, Svip. I suppose it is not much more unlikely than the victories we have already won."

A startling thought occurred to me, when Svip and I had completed our swim and were headed again toward the rose-tinged spires of the City.

Only once, I realised, since I'd returned from my quest and my death, had I greeted the morn as I used to do, climbing to the top of the Tower of Ecthelion and watching dawn spread over the Pelennor and the rooftops of the White City. And I had never once thought of it, as my steps turned automatically to the strand of Anduin instead of to the Tower.

I shook my head, thinking of it, and told myself that I would go to the Tower again, soon. If my altered life was to take me to the River each morning instead of to the White Tower, then perhaps I could train myself to watch each sunset from the Tower's heights, instead.

The hour of parting was nearly upon us. My father had ridden forth to bid our army the Valar's speed. When Svip and I drew nigh to the assembled forces, the Steward sat ahorseback near the van of our troops, in grim-faced conversation with Prince Imrahil. By my father sat Pippin, upon a reasonably Hobbit-sized pony, bravely struggling to conceal his sorrow at the partings that approached.

Lady Éowyn had ridden forth as well. On first sighting her, I knew a moment's dread that she had abandoned her resolution to remain in the City. Indeed, she was clad as though for war, in gleaming mail shirt and bright, white-crested helm, that shone not more brilliantly than her hair. But I saw that she wore a skirt with her warrior's panoply, not the Man's garb that she had worn in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. She was without weapons, as well, as was Merry who sat beside her on a pony like the one that Pippin rode.

I saw the lady exchange quiet, solemn words with the King her brother. Then, though it seemed that Éomer objected to her action and sought to turn her from it, she galloped forward to hold speech with the Lord Aragorn.

Brief were the words they exchanged, before the lady of Rohan shook hands with the would-be king and then wheeled her steed to return to where her fellow Rohirrim awaited to command to move out. I might have imagined it, but it seemed that a fierce blush coloured her face, and that her eyes held more sorrow and anger than ever.

One by one, we bade farewell to kin and friends. With Legolas and Gimli, sat together on their Rohirrim steed, I shared quick hand-clasps. Gimli proclaimed gruffly that he would return with many mighty deeds to his name, and he would be sure not to let the Elf hog all the glory.

With Aragorn also, my parting was brief, a hand-clasp and each of us wishing the other fortune and victory.

I had an armour-rattling hug from my Uncle Imrahil, and I told him, "Now, I expect you to describe to me every inch of Mordor when you return. You know I've always wanted to see the place."

Faramir, I hugged more cautiously, hoping not to put too-great pressure on his wound. We gazed at each other with those smiles that are all too close to tears.

At first, we did not succeed in coming up with any words. My brother smiled a trifle awkwardly at Svip, as though not yet entirely comfortable in conversing with a horse. Nonetheless, he said to our shape-shifting friend, "You'll look after my brother for me, won't you, Svip?"

"I will," Svip said.

"Well," I said. "That's all right, then. Faramir – promise me you'll take care of yourself."

"I will," said Faramir. "You, too."

"Right. Well. Then I will see you again."

"I will see you again."

In his best parade-ground voice, our father now addressed the troops. He said, "You who march for Mordor go with the thoughts and prayers of all who remain behind. Though your journey takes you far from you homelands, keep foremost always in your minds and hearts the cause for which you fight: for Gondor and for Rohan!"

In their thousands our soldiers answered him, shouting forth, "For Gondor and for Rohan!"

The trumpets called, and the commands rang out to march. Troop by troop, company by company, they set forth along the great road to the Causeway.

A small group of us waited at the side of the road, exchanging words of encouragement with our troops as they passed. My father, with Húrin of the Keys and a detachment of the Citadel Guard, the Lady Éowyn, Pippin and Merry, Svip, and I, waited together until the last of our Men had passed us. For another few moments, then, we sat in silence, gazing at the cloud of dust that obscured many of our Men from view, at the glint of the morning sun on spear and shield and helm.

My father rode near to me and said in an emotionless voice, "I am holding audience in the Tower Hall this morning. You and the Lady Éowyn may come to me whenever you will." As I bowed my head in acknowledgement, the Lord Steward glanced down at Pippin and went on in warmer tones, "My esquire has leave to delay his attendance on me for a little while. You may bring him with you when you come for audience."

"I thank you, My Lord," Pippin stammered fervently.

My father and his Men rode back to the Gate. I looked about me at the others who were left.

"If you wish it," I said, "we can watch their progress longer from the Prow of the City. From there, we can see them for hours yet, if that is your desire."

"Not for hours, perhaps," said Éowyn of Rohan, her face and voice as sternly emotionless as those of my father. "There is work to be done. But, yes," she said. "Let us go there."

In the grip of our thoughts, we took the road up the Hill of Guard, the ponies of the two Hobbits sidestepping nervously to keep their distance from the horse-shaped Svip. At the stables on the Sixth Level we left the ponies and Éowyn's steed. Svip changed back to his own form – a transformation which the Lady Éowyn observed with widened eyes, but on which she did not comment. We passed through the torch-lit dimness of the tunnel, into the sunlight through the Citadel Gate, and outward to the easternmost extent of the Seventh Level, along the great carven ship's keel of the Prow of the City.

The stone bench carved into the parapet was well placed so that Svip, Merry and Pippin could stand on it and look out onto the world below. Éowyn and I stood beside the bench. And there we watched, as far below us the tiny specks that were the Men of Gondor and Rohan marched the long, dusty road to the Causeway, to Osgiliath, and to Mordor.

In my thoughts I repeated the words, _I will see you again_.

As our banners vanished in the distance, and sunlight glinted on the armour and weapons of Men we could no longer see, I prayed that those words would be true.


	19. Chapter Nineteen: The White Lady and the...

My usual profuse apologies for taking so long, and thank you to everyone who's been reading, reviewing, and sending messages reminding me to get this thing up here!  Okay, so I went over three months this time – but only by a little!  I know I always say this, but the next chapter _should_ be up sooner.  The next trials and tribulations of our hero are ones that I've been wanting to write for a very long time, so hopefully they will soon be written and posted. 

Thank you again for still being interested in reading this!

Chapter Nineteen: The White Lady and the White City 

            The Army of the West had dwindled to a distant vision, far below us along the Osgiliath Road.  The morning sun still glimmered from each helm and spearpoint and shield, when Éowyn daughter of Éomund turned to me and said, "Shall we go, My Lord Boromir?  I would not keep the Lord your father waiting." 

            "Yes," I said.   Though if truth were told, I felt the same reluctance to give up on those last glimpses of our army as I saw now on the faces of Pippin, Merry and Svip.  "Let us go."

            The shapeshifter and the Hobbits hopped down from the stone ledge.  Svip cast a hesitant glance up at me, then said hurriedly, "I ought to get to the Houses of Healing.  I'll see you tomorrow, Boromir?"

            "Yes, of course."  I thought that I ought to say more to him.  Svip did not seem at all happy about leaving.  I wondered if his work at the Houses were becoming less congenial to him, or if he simply did not like this parting so swift upon the heels of our parting with Faramir, Imrahil, and the rest.  I was about to suggest that he could spend the day with me if he cared to, but he turned abruptly and scuttled for the Citadel Gate.

            _I will go to see him soon_, I told myself; _before we meet in the morn.  Today at the Houses, or tonight at the Fountain, I will seek him out and we will talk, if he wishes to_.

            Lady Éowyn was gazing after Svip with a troubled expression.  I asked, "You are ready, My Lady?"

            "Yes."  She set out toward the White Tower, with swift, determined stride.  I made haste to catch up with her, and the Hobbits scurried in our wake, Merry at Éowyn's heels and Pippin at mine.

            At the door to the Tower the usual guards were joined by the clerk at his camp-stool and folding travel-desk, posted there to chronicle all audience-seekers who presented themselves.  The two guards bowed, and the clerk jumped up from his stool and did the same.

            "You may go through, My Lord Boromir," said the clerk.  "Master Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers is currently in audience, but the Lord Steward gave orders that you were to be admitted whenever you arrived."

We followed the familiar path down the long hall, ever cool and shadowed in even the brightest sunlight, and halted at the tall, polished doors.  I knocked once, and the doors swung open in their meticulously oiled silence.

I heard Pippin whisper to Merry, "There are servants by the door, in alcoves; you just can't see them when they open it."

"Oh.  Well, of course," Merry whispered back, striving to deny any look of startlement he might have worn on seeing the doors open of seemingly their own volition.

As we strode between the black marble pillars and the carven images of Gondor's kings, I glanced over at the Lady of Rohan.  Lady Éowyn showed no qualm or timorousness.  I reminded myself that such poise was only to be expected of she who had slain the Captain of the Nazgûl.  If the lady did feel any nervousness at presenting herself before the Steward of Gondor – or any fear that the Steward might not grant her request – it would be a cold day in Orodruin before she allowed those emotions to show.

Master Rađobard, standing before my father's chair, stepped aside and bowed to us as our footsteps heralded our approach.  My father's seneschal Cosimo, elder brother of my own seneschal Gavrilo, set aside his quill and bowed from his seat at his desk beside the Steward's chair.  His ancient joints were no longer well-suited for speedy risings and re-seatings.

"Boromir, Lady Éowyn, you are welcome," said my father.  He went on in dry tones that probably only Cosimo and I could recognise as amusement, "Is that my esquire I can see lurking behind you?"

"I am here, My Lord," Pippin piped up, stepping hastily to my side.

"Are you ready to resume your duties, Master Peregrin?"

"Of course, My Lord."

"Then post yourself here," the Steward said, gesturing to Cosimo's desk, "and stand ready to give Master Cosimo any assistance."

As Pippin hurried to the desk, my father continued, "I can see no difficulty in granting your request, Master Rađobard, nor do I believe the Council will have any objection."  He turned to Cosimo.  "Take down this: In reparation for his ship the _Eärendil_, lost in the Battle of the Harlond, Master Rađobard son of Baldir, Leader of the Guild of Merchant Adventurers, is hereby authorised to take as his personal property the vessel known as _Scatha_, formerly held by certain pirates of Umbar, and all weaponry, furnishings and other effects that may be found thereupon."

"I thank you, My Lord," Rađobard said, with another bow.

"Master Halfling, when the ink is dry, bring me the order," the Steward commanded.  We waited as the seneschal poured sand upon the writing, blew the sand away again, and affixed to the parchment the crimson wax on which he imprinted the Lord Steward's seal.  Gingerly Pippin carried to my father the document upon a writing desk fitted with inkwell and quill, and the Steward gave his signature.

"Take that to Master Rađobard," my father said to Pippin.  "Rađobard, this grant is but little token of the gratitude your country owes you for your efforts in the late battles.  But I trust it may take some steps toward recompensing you for the losses you sustained in that struggle."

"Gondor's safety is the only recompense to be desired, My Lord," Rađobard declared.  "Every Man of the Merchant Adventurers thanks you for this grant.  If the _Scatha_ or any other vessel of our fleet may be of use to serve the needs of Gondor, you know that you have only to command."

"I know it, and I thank you."

Rađobard took the parchment and Pippin carefully made his way back to Cosimo, eyeing the inkwell as though convinced that it would leap out of the writing desk for the purpose of making him spill it before the Lord Steward. 

Smiling with a look of delight that I was very glad to see upon him, the Guildleader bowed again to us.  He and I exchanged comments that it was good to see the other, then Rađobard said to the Lady of Rohan, "Lady Éowyn, all of Gondor rings with your fame as the warrior who turned the tide of the great battle.  Permit me to add my voice to the chorus of thanks that is your due."

"I thank you, sir," she replied.  Her face and voice kept to their usual solemnity, but I thought I detected in her gaze a brief sparkle of gratified pride.

As Master Rađobard made his way from the Tower Hall, the Steward inquired, "Now, Boromir, what is it that you and the lady would seek of me?"

"It is the Lady Éowyn's suit, My Lord," I said.  "I asked her permission to broach it to you, and to accompany her in this audience, to lend whatever persuasion my words may have to its support.  I believe her justified in the request that she will make.  Master Rađobard spoke even now of the debt that all Gondor owes to Éowyn of Rohan.  With that debt in mind, and as the lady's kinsmen, let us do all that we can to find for her a favourable answer."

"Very well," said my father.  "What would you ask of me, Éowyn Daughter of Éomund?"

The lady curtsied low to him, then arose and spoke in her clear tones, "My Lord Steward, in these days of peril I ask the right to labour for the safety of our countries.  The injury I sustained on the battlefield beyond these walls has taken from me the chance to ride with our army to Mordor.  But my broken arm does not stop me from riding a horse, My Lord, nor from wielding a sword.  Nor has it taken from me my skill, nor my resolve to play my own small part in the defence of Gondor and Rohan.  Lord Steward, I beg of you the honour of a place among Gondor's forces, where there is work of use to be done.  As Eorl my longfather did not stand idle when Gondor had need of him, so I would I not be idle now when Mundburg's need is great."

Long and keenly my father gazed upon her.  The lady held well the Steward's scrutiny.

"We have not forgotten our indebtedness to you, Lady Éowyn," the Steward said at last, "nor your valorous deeds and those of your kinsmen and longfathers.  Yet I would be remiss in my duty did I permit you to undertake too strenuous duty now, before you are fully healed.  How say you to this?  The Riders of Rohan under command of Marshal Elfhelm patrol day and night the borders of the Pelennor.  When next the Marshal returns from his shift, present yourself to him with my compliments, and with my request that he assign you place in his command.  You may tell him that the Steward of Gondor supports in full your wish to join in the Éored's duties.  But on one condition do I endorse your cause: you must accept only every other day's duty, riding with the patrol one day and remaining in the City the next.  I would betray the King your brother – and betray you as well, Lady of Rohan – did I fail to acknowledge that even the most valiant cannot recover their full strength without rest and time.  Will this content you, Lady?"

She bowed her head to him.  "It will, My Lord.  I thank you, Lord Steward, for your kindness and wisdom."

"Cosimo," my father commanded, "Prepare an order that the Lady Éowyn may present to Marshal Elfhelm."

Cosimo took up his quill and set to work.  The lady drew in a breath as though to speak again, then abruptly she shut her mouth.  The Steward did not fail to notice this, and he turned his clear-seeing glance upon her once more.

"There is more that you would ask, Lady?" he inquired.

Her face coloured slightly as she said, "My Lord, forgive my presumptuousness in making another request of you.  I – if you will, I would ask for the order to include the statement that I may remove my place of residence from the Houses of Healing.  I require the Healers' assistance no longer.  The room and the Healers' time both would be better used to aid those whose hurts are greater than mine.  There is little I require, Lord; if there is room in some barracks or boarding house, I will be at ease there and I will be even more in the Lord Steward's debt."

My father smiled.  He glanced from Éowyn to me, and to her again.  "Cosimo," he said then, "add to the order that Lady Éowyn will remove from the Houses of Healing to the West Guesthouse, and that any room she may choose there is to be placed at her disposal."  He added to the lady, "I believe that you will find it comfortable.  Do you require further servants beyond your Halfling esquire?"

"No, My Lord, I thank you.  Master Meriadoc is all I require."    

We waited as Cosimo finished penning the order, and Pippin took it for the Steward's signature.  My father asked me of the progress of our fortifications at Osgiliath, and I answered him, all the while noticing that the Lord Steward seemed to be smiling more than necessary as his gaze took in the Lady Éowyn and me.  With effort I repressed a sigh, for I thought that I knew full well that particular smug and self-satisfied expression.

My father's graciousness to the lady, I thought, owed less to the justice of her claims than it did to his belief that he had just discovered a suitable candidate to be my wife.  Nor was it like to be coincidence that he had chosen the West Guesthouse as her new place of residence, for the West Guesthouse is the one nearest to the King's House.

Devoutly I hoped that Éowyn had not noticed my father's gaze upon us – or if she had, that she did not place on it the same interpretation as I did.

I told myself, _I really should not complain_.  The fact that my father felt up to playing matchmaker was a hopeful sign indeed.  For the first time since I had returned from my fatal quest, it seemed he believed Gondor secure enough that he could return his attention to our lack of a next generation of heirs.

With the order that she had sought held firmly in her hand, Lady Éowyn, Merry and I took our leave.  Pippin bravely strove not to look too forlorn as we departed from the Tower Hall without him.

Returned to the morning's sunlight, we paused by the Fountain of the White Tree.  Éowyn of Rohan permitted herself a deep sigh.  Then she smiled at me, with more true happiness than I could remember seeing on her face at any time past.

"I thank you for your help, Lord Boromir," she said.  "I thank you more than I can say."

  I nodded, then I said, "Pardon me for asking this, Lady – but do you anticipate any difficulty in putting my father's order into practice?  I know that the soldiers of Rohan are more accustomed to the notion of shieldmaidens among their ranks than are those of Gondor.  Will they be accustomed enough?  They will not resent the order that places you among them?" 

Solemnly she considered that, then she answered, "They will not resent it.  Our forces know and trust me, as I do them.  We have endured much together – and my late deeds in arms will give me whatever acceptance among them might once have been lacking.  There will be no difficulty, My Lord."

"I am glad of it," I said.  "I will escort you to the West Guesthouse, then I must make speed for Osgiliath."  As we set out, I continued, "If you wish it, I will send to you women of my household who can make any adjustments to the clothing Lord Éomer purchased for you – while yet not indulging in any unnecessary fussing."

Colour crept over her face once more.  I hoped that the sharp-eyed gaze she aimed at me reassured her that I was not laughing at her.     

"Very well, Lord," she said.  Grudging amusement touched her smile as we walked on.  "I accept, and again I thank you.  Though I trust I will have little need for garments besides those I now wear.  A Rider of Rohan should have scant call for afternoon dresses or ball gowns."

My wits failed me utterly in finding a reply to that which did not sound inane, but fortunately Lady Éowyn spared me the duty of answering.  She began with some hesitation, "Your friend the shapeshifter – his name is Svip?"

"Yes, it is."

"My brother told me a little of him.  I apologise that I did not introduce myself to him.  I fear he must think the women of the House of Eorl sorely deficient in manners."

"To tell the truth," I said, "you are one of the first women of our race that he has really encountered.  He is not like to know whether it is customary to be introduced to ladies, or not."

"In that case, I will be doubly deficient if I do not correct my fault.  I would not have him think that all of my sex are as churlish as I have been.  Lord Boromir – I could not help but notice that horses seem uncomfortable around him?"

I nodded.  "The steeds of Rohan fare better with him than others, but no horse that I have seen is fully at ease in his presence.  They do not like him in his own shape, and even less, perhaps, are they comfortable with his horse form."

She frowned in thought.  "I will need work with which to occupy my time, on the days when I am not with the patrol.  If you wish – and if Lord Svip would not mind – I will train the horses of the Citadel to work more comfortably with him.  If you intend to continue going into battle with him, the ability of the horses to work with him could mean the difference between life and death."

I reflected that poor Éomer would really have a bone to pick with me, if I conspired with his sister again to negate all efforts at making her rest and recuperate.  But I confess that my conscience did not pain me overmuch on the subject.  If the lady's reactions were anything like my own, she would fare far better with practical deeds to accomplish than by sitting about waiting for time to heal her. 

I said, "That would be a worthy achievement, and I at least would welcome it.  I will speak of it to Svip when next I see him.  He may be hesitant at first, but I do not think he will turn down the opportunity.  He is as uneasy around horses as they around him, but that may end as well if the horses' fear is eased."

We had reached the West Guesthouse, nestled in the Citadel Wall with our guardian mountain looming behind it.  Lady Éowyn glanced up at the tall, narrow building, then she spoke suddenly in a voice surprisingly soft and uncertain, "Do you think there will be any of these rooms available – with their windows looking eastward?"

"I am certain of it," I said.  "Minas Tirith is not currently overflowing with guests.  Even if there were none empty, the Steward's order would be sufficient to claim for you any room you wish, whether vacant or not.  But, I would be surprised did any of these rooms prove to be taken."

She nodded, smiled faintly, then cast a distracted glance over her shoulder: north and east, where, blocked from our sight by the buildings of the Citadel, the Army of the West marched upon the Osgiliath Road.

I parted from Éowyn and Merry, after receiving the lady's assurance that she would need no attendants beyond the young Hobbit to move her belongings from the Houses of Healing.  Merry's face bore a broad, brilliant smile as he wished me goodbye, and I reflected that Master Meriadoc at least should be well pleased with the Steward's verdict.  Lady Éowyn might wish that the Lord Denethor had not commanded her to take alternate days of rest.  But his order that she ride with the Rohirrim patrol should mean that she would feel no need to leave the City in disguise in a bid to catch up with our army.

The days that followed seemed strange to me, almost as though we had journeyed into our past. 

At Osgiliath work progressed swiftly.  Guildsmen from the Stonemasons' and Carters' Guilds laboured alongside our troops in rebuilding East Osgiliath's wall.  The old stone bridge we made no effort to rebuild, contenting ourselves instead with repairing and strengthening one of the pontoon bridges left to us by the enemy.  If the time came when we were again compelled to retreat to the western shore, the pontoons would be easier by far for our rear guard to destroy behind us.

The Merchant Adventurers' Guild plied their trade again.  Their new flagship the _Scatha_ remained in harbour, with a crew of armed guildsmen ready and waiting to turn the pirate ship's weaponry to the Harlond's defence.  But their other surviving vessels voyaged downriver, with the Steward's commission to buy up grain and other foodstuffs for re-provisioning Osgiliath.

It was easy almost to forget the times in which we laboured, the promise of death and doom that lingered on the eastern horizon.  The days were fair, pure spring days of sun and untainted sky.  It seemed impossible that so many of our comrades had marched into the east, to face first the end that was likely soon to come upon us all. 

Almost I imagined that we had stepped twenty years and more into the past, to the days when our doom was not yet certain.  It seemed that again we lived those days of purpose and hope, when we had strengthened our defences along the eastern shore, sent forth sorties ever farther into lands that had been the Enemy's, when we fought in the untarnished belief that we could be victorious, that Gondor would never fall. 

Almost could I believe all of that.  Yet our past was not come again.  Purpose and tantalizing hope were not enough to deny the truth of our present days. 

My brother was not safe in the City, nor at his post at Henneth Annûn, but rode with seven thousands for the Black Gate of Mordor.  Our uncle did not rule secure in Dol Amroth by the sea, but rode to the darkness at Faramir's side.  The Men of Gondor, Rohan and the southlands advanced upon a foe they could not hope to defeat.  And we, left at home, laboured at fortifications that must count as no more than sandcastles, when the black tide rolled in upon us at last.

As sunset neared on that day of our army's departure, I rode back to the City.  Leaving my horse at my townhouse's stables, I betook me to the Houses of Healing, where I found Svip at work mixing healing unguents in company with Dame Ioreth.  That worthy dame was telling the water creature some anecdote about her sister who dwelt in the woods of Lossarnach.  The thought came to me that Svip had found here a kindred soul who could talk as relentlessly as he could.

Eagerly Svip accepted my proposal that he join me for a walk to the roof of the White Tower.  The Guards had informed us that my father was in his chamber at the top of the Tower, so we spoke as quietly as we could that we might not disturb the Steward in his retreat.  I leaned against the parapet and Svip stood on a chair that we had requisitioned from the uppermost guardroom, and we watched rosy-hued sunset creep over the land.

"You seemed troubled this morning, Svip," I said.  "I wanted to ask you, would you prefer some other duty than your work at the Houses of Healing?"

"No, no," he said hurriedly, "it's fine.  Only … well, there isn't so much work there now … many of the patients have been released … Thorolf's back on duty now too, you know, he's with the rest of Cirion's Rangers at Osgiliath.  And – and I don't like you leaving the City without me.  There could be another attack, couldn't there?  We don't know when it could come; you've said yourself the Dark Lord's got thousands and thousands more troops.  I just don't like that you're out there without me.  If something happened, I wouldn't be there.  After all," he added in defiant tones, "you're still part of my collection.  That's why I left home in the first place, so I could keep an eye on you." 

"I know it, Svip, and I thank you."  It seemed a perfect opportunity, and I outlined for Svip the Lady Éowyn's offer. 

As I had anticipated, Svip greeted nervously the concept of spending days in close company with horses.  But he could also see the possibilities.

He cocked his long head to one side, frowning in thought.  "Well," he murmured, "if you really think I should …"

"Lady Éowyn will be a kind teacher;" I said, "you need have no dread of her.  She will have the horses well under control; I believe the Rohirrim understand horses better than the horses do themselves.  And if there can be built up at least a core unit of the Citadel's horses that are unafraid of you, it will increase greatly our efficiency together in combat."

"I know," Svip said, "but I still think I should be with you."

"You can be, every other day, when Lady Éowyn is on patrol with the Éored.  You will be helping her, Svip, as much as if she were still in the Houses of Healing and you were tending her hurts.  She will heal far faster with this challenge to which she can turn her thoughts.  You will be helping her to do that."

Svip mused, "Do you think we can train with the horses near to where you are?  So if there's any attack, we can get to you quickly?"

I smiled and told him, "I am certain that could be managed."

Thus the next day I rode Svip to Osgiliath, after our morning's dip in the Anduin.  The water creature seemed nearly his cheerful self as of old.  He enthusiastically apprenticed himself to the Stonemason's Guild in mixing mortar for the wall.  But he also checked, more frequently than may have been strictly necessary, on my welfare and that of his old friends in Cirion's company of Rangers. 

The Rangers and I were among those labouring to move back into place the great stone blocks of East Osgiliath's wall.  In this effort we had the cranes and pulleys of the Carters' Guild to help us, and the machinery fascinated our small green friend. 

I thought that if Svip started building up a new collection, I would see if the Carters' Guild had an old crane that they would be willing to part with.  Doubtless it would hold pride of place among Svip's treasures – until the next fascination came along.

As the afternoon waned, one of the Rohirrim's patrols rode in along the shore, from their route south to Emyn Arnen.  The Horselords filed through the narrow path still open in the remains Osgiliath's old East Gate, past the towering blocks waiting to be hauled into place when need came for the gate to be sealed.   

While their patrol continued on to the bridge, two of the foremost Riders left the column and rode to me: the Lady Éowyn and Marshal Elfhelm.

The Lady of Rohan armoured and helmeted as I had seen her last, clad as any Rohirrim warrior save for her long white skirt and the sling on her left arm.  Nor did any other Rider bear before them on the saddle a young Hobbit esquire.  Éowyn waited for Merry to hop down first, then the lady herself effortlessly alighted, to bow her head to me and request an introduction to Svip.

The shapeshifter scrambled down from the crane where he had been perched.  After a nervous glance at me, he bowed low to the lady.  I performed the introductions.  With Éowyn leading her horse, the lady and the two Halflings then walked aside, discussing plans for their training session on the morrow.

Marshal Elfhelm dismounted and took from his pouch a couple of sugar cubes, proffering them to his roan.  As he stroked the horse's face and mane, he said to me, "We have something to report today, My Lord.  I think that we have company.  Yesterday we suspected it; we found tracks in several places where the forest meets Emyn Arnen.  But the tracks were all in rocky terrain; none were clear enough for us to be sure.  Today some of us rode to the Emyn Arnen watchtower, while others patrolled the base of the hill.  I have reports with me that the watchtower's commander requested I carry to the City.  They confirm the same thing that the keenest-sighted among us saw from Emyn Arnen's crest.  There is movement in the Mountains of Shadow, where the foothills come nearest the Harad Road."

"Movement," I repeated grimly.  "You and the commander are certain it is no mere herd of mountain goats?"

"Certain, My Lord, unless the mountain goats of Ephel Dúath are caparisoned in metal.  They have not come near enough for any detail to be clear, but there was most certainly the flash of sun on metal, too frequent for it to be some mere trick of the light."

I nodded.  The watchtower's garrison were experienced Men, and well used to the moods of the mountains of Mordor.  I had read in Húrin of the Keys' reports that the Emyn Arnen post were among the last to reach the City as our foes closed in upon us, making their escape scarce an hour before the advance of the Haradrim would have cut them off.  Those same Men had returned to their post on the day after the siege was broken.  If they saw cause for concern in the movements amid Ephel Dúath, then cause there decidedly was.

"I do not need to tell you to maintain a sharp lookout," I said.  "I hope I also need not remind you, Lord Marshal, how little we can afford further loss of life in any but a decisive struggle.  If you are tempted to send sorties into the mountains to flush out these visitors of ours, resist it.  If the enemy are again gathering in the mountains, we will only help their cause by sending our Men where archers could pick them off from hiding without ever a blow being struck in return."

"Very well, My Lord," the Marshal said with a grimace.  "Some of our boys _were_ getting their hearts set on a little hunting trip."

"They will live with the disappointment.  One thing that you can do is to send a squad of picked Men to reinforce the Emyn Arnen watchtower."  I glanced over at the Lady of Rohan and her companions, and added, "You will of course ensure that the squad does not include the Lady Éowyn."

"You need not tell me twice," Elfhelm said, with feeling.  "If aught happens to her, Éomer King will rip my head from my shoulders."

That evening, when Svip and I again watched the sunset from the roof of the White Tower, my gaze turned often to the scarce-visible speck that was the Emyn Arnen watchtower, and to the brooding Mountains of Shadow beyond.

The next morn Lady Éowyn met us at the Harlond Gate when we emerged from our morning's swim.  Her entourage consisted of Merry, two grooms from the Citadel stables, and a full dozen horses, four from my townhouse's stables and eight from those of the Citadel. 

The green of Svip's face went pale and sickly at the sight of them.  But as we rode for Osgiliath, with Svip huddled before me on our usual Rohirrim steed Fengel, the lady drew Svip forth with questions on his people's habit of transforming themselves to horse form.  The water creature seemed almost comfortable by the time he, Éowyn and Merry dropped me off at Osgiliath's West Gate, and they returned with Fengel to the side of the Causeway a little space away, where they had left the grooms and the other horses.

  The reports of the Rohirrim's patrols held to the pattern of the day before.  None of their Riders along Rammas Echor, nor on the east shore north of Osgiliath, reported any glimpse of the enemy.  Every report of enemy presence came from the patrols around Emyn Arnen. 

In the night the Men in the watchtower had sighted two small fires, in the darkness of Ephel Dúath.  The Rohirrim that day found tracks at the edge of the foothills, that they had no difficulty in identifying as the tread of iron-shod Orcs.  They found also, amid the rocks, a mountain goat that had bled to death, a black-feathered arrow lodged in its side. 

As evening approached I took my way on foot across the pontoon bridge, through West Osgiliath and back to my comrades at the edge of the Causeway. 

It seemed there had been no disasters, and neither Svip nor the horses appeared any the worse for wear.  When I joined them Lady Éowyn was in the process of teaching Svip to ride, the lady walking along beside while Svip spent a few minutes on each horse in turn.  Merry stood ready with a basketful of dried apples, carrots and sugar cubes. 

The best proof I could wish that the day was a success came when Svip himself volunteered that they should spend another hour or so at the training.  Readily assenting, I reclaimed Fengel from the training session and rode back to the City.

It had been my thought to go at once to my father, to discuss with him the latest reports.  But as I rode through the gate into the Third Level, Lord Húrin of the Keys hailed me from the door to the City Armoury.

"Lord Boromir!" he called.  "I have been lying in wait for you.  Have you the time to share with me some wine and your counsel?"

"Gladly," said I, "though I hope the counsel will not be so bitter as to need the wine to sweeten it."  Leaving Fengel with the guards in the courtyard, I walked with the Keeper of the Keys to his office in the armoury's centre bastion.

Our discussion remained in the realm of pleasantries until we were ensconced in Húrin's office, each of us provisioned with a goblet of 2920 White Tree wine.

Húrin reverently replaced the bottle on its shelf and sat down.  Only then did he begin, "About an hour ago we received a request from the garrison commander at Halifirien, asking if evacuees are permitted yet to return to the City.  It is the sixth such request we have had in the last two days.  We had two requests yesterday, from the commanders at Nardol and Erelas.   They come from farther afield today; from Minrimmon, Calenhad, Halifirien, and from the Lord Mayor of Tumladen.  The word is spreading of our victory a few days ago, and the people are growing restless to return to their homes." 

Húrin paused to take a drink, and I asked, "Has the question been brought to the Steward's attention?"

"Aye, Lord," Húrin said, frowning, "I passed the first two requests on to him yesterday evening, and all but the last, I sent to him today noon.  But I have not been able to see him to ask his instructions in person.  I was told he has been in his Tower chamber.  If he has considered the requests, My Lord, I at least have not received any answer upon them."

"I see."  It occurred to me that I had not seen my father in person since Lady Éowyn's audience, now two days before.  I wondered how long he had been in seclusion in the Tower chamber this time, and how long I could let it go before I really started worrying about him.  Not, from previous experience, that worrying about him was liable to do any good.

I took a drink, then I said, "Then we must make the decision ourselves, and hope the Lord Steward will be in agreement with us."  I thought a moment, and I frowned darker the more I thought on it. 

Regretfully I decided, "It's too soon to permit any returns.  A day or two ago, I might not have said so.  But with these reports from the Rohirrim and the Emyn Arnen garrison …"  I shook my head.  "We cannot risk it.  Until we have some knowledge of how our forces have fared in the east, we dare not risk authorising our people's return to a City that might become the scene of yet another battle."    

Húrin of the Keys took another swig of his wine.  "It's a hard thing to tell people that they cannot come back to their homes.  And to require the fortress towns and our neighbours to support thousands who would be able to support themselves could they return to their own lands and businesses."

"It will be a harder thing to let them return, and to have them perhaps be still on the roads when the next army of Mordor crosses the River."

Húrin sighed.  "Aye, My Lord.  I'll send word to the commanders and our allies, that the evacuees must remain where they are until further notice."  The Keeper of the Keys frowned, absently flicking with his forefinger at one of the gems on the base of his goblet.  "This mission to Mordor," he said finally, "do you think there is really any hope in it?  Did we send our Men with any real hope that they could aid in the fight against the Dark?  Or did they go simply to get the Wizard and the Captain of the Northmen out of your Lord father's hair?"

I laughed at that, albeit with little cheer.  "There may be something in that," I said, "though I would hope that seven thousands were not sent forth merely to rid my father of two annoyances."

Húrin bit his lip.  "It seems like foolery, the more I think on it – this whole expedition.  Yet I confess I cannot truly think of any real alternative – save only to keep all of our fighting Men in the City and prepare that we may defend Minas Tirith to the last.  The Wizard heaped scorn enough on that option in the council.  But the more I have thought of it since the army's departure, the more I wish that we had followed that course – the Stormcrow's scorn notwithstanding."

"Aye," I said.  "I have thought of that as well.  But there is no use in it.  It is too late now for second thoughts; we must defend Minas Tirith to the last, whether or not our army returns home."     

"Aye."  Hesitantly Húrin eyed me.  "My Lord … what of this Captain of the Rangers?  The one that some are calling king?"

"What of him?" I sighed.

"You travelled with him for months, sir, did you not?  What do you think of him?  Is he – is he anyone that Gondor would ever want as her king?"

I managed a thin smile.  "I wish I had a company of bowmen for every time someone has asked me that question."

"I'm sorry, My Lord, it doesn't matter – "

"No," I told him, "no, you should have an answer."  I thought to myself that I should just issue a proclamation stating my opinions on Aragorn Son of Arathorn, since I was being called upon to express them so often. 

"He is a good Man, I believe.  A skilled warrior, and a strong leader.  Gondor could do far worse.  What I do not know," I went on, "is whether there is any need for Gondor to have a king.  Perhaps family feeling prevents me from seeing the truth clearly – but I truly cannot say that I believe we have been any worse off these past thousand years with the Stewards as rulers of Gondor, than we would have been with a line of kings."

The Keeper of the Keys nodded.  "Aye," he said again, in apparent satisfaction.  "So say I also.  Times change.  Because we had kings once, must we have them always?  The Stewards have ruled well, and have held back the Enemy from Gondor's door.  What need have we then of a king, who could do no better?"

I smiled at his vehemence, but I could feel my smile turning bitter.  "Ah, but of course," I observed, "I am sure Lord Mithrandir would tell us that a king _will_ do better.  That he will usher in a new Golden Age, and that any achievements of the House of Stewards will seem as nothing, viewed beside his glory."

"Golden Age, my arse," Húrin muttered. 

"Now, now, My Lord of the Keys," I admonished.  "You may be speaking of our next king."

"Valar's blood," he swore, "I hope not.  But My Lord, in all seriousness – I want you to know that you will have my support, if the question of whether to acknowledge him as king ever comes before the Council.  Whatever decision you and the Lord Steward may reach upon the matter, I will stand by you – as, I know, will all of our people."

"Ah," I said, smiling still and hoping that there would not come a day when I would have to consider this matter seriously.  "I thank you, Húrin, for reminding me of my overwhelming responsibilities."

He grinned.  "You can handle it, sir.  I've known you would be a leader we could rely on – ever since you were six years old and wheedling all us ten-year-olds into showing you every fencing move the Master-at-arms just taught us."

"Now that, I should think," I pointed out, "would only have told you how annoying I could be, not how reliable."

Húrin snorted.  "You've got less annoying over the years, My Lord.  Anyhow – I'd rather have an annoying Steward, any day, than a king out of the wilds of who-knows- where.  Although," he added in a speculating tone, "I suppose having a king could bring some advantages.  You don't happen to know, do you, sir, whether this Lord Aragorn is married?"

I laughed.  "I've heard he's betrothed to the daughter of Elrond Half-Elven.  I'm afraid you won't be able to marry him off to your sister."

Opening his eyes wide, Lord Húrin exclaimed, "He's engaged to an _Elf_?  We're in worse trouble than I thought."

I muttered before I could stop myself, "You don't know the half of it."

"What are people thinking?" he continued in tones of outrage.  "They must not know anything of him, the ones who are saying that he ought to be king.  What do we want with a Northern Elf-lover ruling us?  Will he have us all move into the forests with him?  Or bring in Elf Lords to make up the majority of the Council?"

I said, trying to return the discussion to some level of decorum, "It is true that building more cordial relations with the Elven kingdoms would not be amiss.  Particularly if the threat of war remains – and our kingdoms remain – after this present crisis.  We will be foolish not to cultivate the friendship of those who might stand beside us against the darkness."

"Yes, but bloody hell!  We can build up more cordial relations without our rulers marrying them!"

I drank down the last of my wine.  "Húrin, my dear friend," I said, "I can appreciate your feelings.  But our judgement on whether Lord Aragorn is the right Man to lead Gondor must not rest on age-old suspicions of a people who were once our friends, and who may be so again."

"Aye, My Lord," Húrin sighed heavily.  "Though I might question whether they were our friends even in the Last Alliance – or if it were desperation only that drove them to tolerate us then, even as it is now."

Húrin of the Keys finished off his wine, and set down his goblet with a thud.  "Forgive me for speaking so freely," he said.  "I'll hold my tongue better in Council."

"Aye," I smiled, "that is my usual resolution as well.  And I usually fail at it utterly." 

When I sought out my father that evening, I was informed that indeed he kept still to his Tower chamber.  I left orders that I was to be notified the instant that he descended.  But in the morning when Svip and I paid our visit to the River and rode on to Osgiliath, still had I had no word.

Reports soon reached me at Osgiliath that for a few of the Rohirrim, their longings for action had received at least some satisfaction.  In the night a patrol nigh to Emyn Arnen had met with a band of Orcs, no more than two score at the most, on a foray out from the foothills.

Whether this band were a hunting party or a handful of hotheads who could not be restrained from launching a strike against their enemy, we were not like to discover.  Whatever had been their goal, they found themselves sorely outnumbered.  Even in the darkness that should have favoured the Orcs, the Horselords had made short work of them, slaying eighteen and being restrained with difficulty from chasing the few who survived to retreat into the mountains.  The Rohirrim casualties were minimal, flesh wounds to three of the Riders and to two of the horses.

The weapons and armour which the Horselords took from the corpses and sent to Osgiliath for my inspection, bore on breastplate, helm and sword hilt the foul blazon of the Eye of Mordor.

 That day as I laboured with the rest on the East Osgiliath wall, my gaze and my thoughts were drawn along the shore, south to the hill of Emyn Arnen.

Grimly I chid myself for allowing the Lady Éowyn – my wife's cousin, sister to the King of Rohan, and with a broken arm to boot – to continue riding with the patrols, in the precise section of territory where she was most likely to find herself in combat.

It was with a nearly sickening surge of relief that I saw, late in that afternoon, the patrol returning with Marshal Elfhelm, Lady Éowyn and Merry riding at its head.

The patrol had little of substance to report, save only continuing sightings from the Emyn Arnen watchtower.  As Éowyn and Merry paused to exchange greetings with Svip, back at work mixing mortar with the Men of the Stonemasons' Guild, I held another brief conference with Elfhelm the Marshal.  The Rider's expression was as grim as my thoughts, as I broached the question of reassigning the Lady Éowyn.

"Well, My Lord," said he, "there's the question of whether or not I've any command over her.  In theory I'd guess that I do.  But I've no great wish to try putting the theory into practice.  If you want to try convincing her to join another patrol, then I wish you the very best of luck."

With no very great enthusiasm I accepted that duty.  Svip and I joined the patrol on their ride back to the City.  On that ride the lady and I discussed theories of whence these Orcs in the mountains might hail.  We agreed that it was most likely they were remnants of the host that had besieged the City, waiting now for the next invasion force to join them from Mordor.  On the subject of Éowyn's presence in the Emyn Arnen patrol, we did not touch, despite various smirks and raised eyebrows from Marshal Elfhelm that queried me on when I would get around to mentioning it.

As we passed through the Great Gate, I asked Lady Éowyn if she would join me in my sunset walk to the roof of the White Tower.  With her usual enigmatic solemnity, she accepted. 

I know not if Svip and Merry had guessed that there were matters I hoped to discuss with the lady alone, but the two of them laid plans to seek out Pippin and see if he could join them for the daymeal in the Citadel's barracks.  So it was that the Lady Éowyn and I set out on the climb up the Tower of Ecthelion's stairs.

"It is a long climb," I said belatedly, as we passed the door to my father's office and climbed onward.  "I am sorry, I should have remembered your injury.  If you would prefer not to continue on …"

"I can assure you, My Lord," was her dry reply, "I climb upon my feet, not my arms."

That set me down a few notches, and I came up with nothing else to say until the lady asked if I believed the sightings of the enemy should lead to any change in our strategy.

It was a perfect invitation to discuss her future postings, but I put off taking her up on it.  Instead I answered, "I will see what can be done to increase the manpower of the patrols, and of Osgiliath's garrison."

The guard on the Tower rooftop, to my great joy and relief, told us that my father had descended from his chamber a few hours since.  Discreetly this guard moved to post himself at the west side of the Tower, where the Steward's chamber would block the lady and me from the guardsman's sight. 

I appreciated his discretion, but I sighed as I speculated on what precisely the Man believed I had in mind when I brought the Lady of Rohan to the roof to watch the sunset with me.

Lady Éowyn leaned her uninjured arm upon the parapet, and gazed out toward the east.  I stood beside her, and sternly ordered myself to avoid the subject no longer.

"I hope you will pardon me for saying this, Lady.  I very much doubt it was the Lord Steward's intent that you should join the patrol on its most dangerous route, in the very areas of the eastern shore where forces of the enemy are most likely to be concealed."

"Indeed, My Lord?" she queried.  "If the Lord Steward had a preference on the route of my patrol, he did not state it in his order nor during our audience.  But of course, you know him best.  Do you mean that his order was intended as the simplest way of quieting an annoying woman, by fobbing me off with an assignment which would have the appearance of importance and trust, while yet running no real risk of sending me into combat?"

Mentally I groaned.  But yet I also could not restrain a smile of admiration – at the fierce spirit with which she spoke, and also at the keen sight that she turned upon our motives. 

I said, "That is not exactly how I would have put it, My Lady.  But you may essentially be right.  Do you blame my father – or me – if we would prefer not to send our kinswoman to her death?  And if we would prefer not having to explain your death to the Lord your brother, when he returns?"

She smiled, a smile that seemed both of amusement and of challenge.  "You are brave Men, My Lord.  I am sure you will weather that ordeal, if you are forced to face it.  But for your sake and your Lord father's, I will endeavour not to be slain."

"I am your debtor, Lady Éowyn," I said, bowing to her.  I turned then to lean upon the parapet, gazing out on the fields of Pelennor and the sunset-reddened path of the Great River.  Not turning to face the shieldmaiden, I continued, "In Gondor we are used to our women facing the perils of war along with our men, as our children must also face them.  But we are not used to our women riding into battle beside us.  I hope you will forgive my provinciality of thought, if I confess that I pray we need never become used to it."  

Quietly Lady Éowyn replied, "The men of Rohan are not used to it either.  But they can learn.  As, I am sure, can the men of Gondor.  We must all learn to accept realities that we would prefer not to face." 

For some moments we stood without speaking.  I watched as the first glimmers of light became visible in Osgiliath, our Men's cook fires flickering to life in the ruined city.  I glanced to Emyn Arnen, where gleams of light shone also from the watch tower's windows.  Squinting into the dusk I sought for any answering firelight in the Mountains of Shadow, but I saw none.

Éowyn spoke suddenly, "They could not have reached it yet – the Black Gate?  They have not been gone long enough?"

"No.  Not yet.  It must be another three days, at the very least, before they can reach it."

"Three days," she murmured, so quietly that I had to all but guess at her words.  "Three days.  And what then?"

I had no answer for that.  The lady turned to me with a wan, haunted gaze.

"Lord Boromir … " she began, "forgive me for asking you this.  It is not fair of me to trouble you by asking it, but I must.  Would you sense it if some misfortune befell the Lord your brother?  Or any of the others who ride with him?  Would you – if something had happened to them, would you know?"

Grimly I met her gaze.  I felt the same chill close around my heart that must have been gripping Lady Éowyn's heart as well.

"No," I answered her.  "I'm sorry.  My father and brother have all of the visions in our family.  When I died, Faramir knew of it, but I … "   I shook my head.  "I wish I could believe that I would know it, if anything befell him.  But I have no cause to think that I would.  I am sorry I can be of no help to you, My Lady.  I must wait for earthly messengers to bring me news, just as everyone else." 

"But your father would know?" she asked, with a hint of hopefulness.  "And would he tell you?"

"I don't know.  It may well be that he would not; my father is apt to keep his own counsel."  Then I truly thought of it.  "But … yes.  Perhaps; I think he would.  If it were Faramir – if something had happened to him – I think that Father would tell me.  For the others, for all of them, I cannot say.  I do not know if my father would tell me, even if a vision had shown him destruction coming to all of them.  But I think he would tell me of Faramir."

"I am sorry, My Lord," she whispered.  "I am sorry for asking."  She gazed up at me with a desperate pleading in her eyes.  "If he tells you … if he tells you anything of their fate, will you tell me?  I feel that I cannot bear this waiting to know."

I challenged myself as to the propriety of my action, yet still I reached out and placed my hand over hers, as she gripped the parapet. 

"I will tell you, Lady," I promised.  "I will tell you if I learn anything of their fate, from whatever source."

Her glance dropped.  "Thank you, My Lord," came her almost inaudible whisper.  She looked over at our hands, and I felt her hand flinch slightly below mine, as though she wished to draw away from me but held herself back from doing so.  I withdrew my hand from hers.

She murmured, summoning up a faint and pain-filled smile, "I believe it is the worst thing of all, of being a woman – the waiting.  Waiting always, while the men ride to battle, never knowing who will ride home alive, and who will return a corpse.  When I rode with them, Lord Boromir, I prayed that death in battle would spare me the pain of ever waiting for them again.  I suppose I am a coward, for what else is one who cannot endure the pain that is dealt out to them?"

"You are no coward, Lady," I insisted.  "And some pain is more than anyone can bear."

She took a deep breath, and made a valiant effort to smile with more cheer.  "Yes, My Lord, but not this.  These are only everyday fears that I have allowed to take hold of me.  I should know better, by now, than to quail at the monsters of my own making."

I smiled back at her.  "None would blame you," I said, "for these monsters come to all of us."

"Aye," she sighed, "and I fear I am but poor company, to make your thoughts darker by my presence than they were without it."

"Then, My Lady, let us fight the darkness in time-honoured fashion, by changing the subject.  When did we last meet?  I have been asking myself that, but I'm afraid I cannot remember.  My memories are of a lanky girl who I think I never saw off the back of her horse.  It must be long since you were the child I remember.  I'm sure I did not see you when I stopped at Edoras last year, on my way to Imladris."

"No," she said, trouble returning immediately to her gaze.  "No, we did not meet then.  I believe – I am sorry, My Lord.  Before this year, we met last here in Minas Tirith – five years ago, when I was here for the funeral of the Princesses."

"Yes," I said, "of course."  My voice sounded strangely distant to my ears, as though it were another Man who spoke.  The ache of that old wound stabbed at me with her words, as though the loss were become fresh anew. 

I told her, "I thank you for being here then.  I am sorry that I did not remember."

"No one would blame you for that, Lord," she said.  "It was not a time that any would wish to remember."

I thought, now that she had reminded me, that perhaps I recalled her at the funeral after all – a pallid, rain-drenched figure, whose face mirrored all too clearly the pain in my own soul.

I fought to think of something to say, but Éowyn succeeded in it before me.  "They were happy here, Lord Boromir," she said with hurried intensity, as though hoping with her words to banish all sorrow from about us.  "It was clear from all of their letters, from the way they wrote of you, and of Lord Faramir, and of their lives here.  I had only a few letters from Princess Théodhild, but Princess Éoflæd wrote often, and she wrote of what Théodhild was doing as well.  They were happy here." 

I smiled ruefully, thinking of Théodhild chewing her quill pen or throwing it down in disgust, or more frequently groaning of the number of letters she had to write but never quite getting around to starting them.  I said, "She did try to keep up with her letter-writing.  Perhaps she did not succeed very well at it.  But she did try."

"I know she did, My Lord.  I did not mean to sound complaining.  A wife and mother has more pressing demands on her time than writing letters to her spinster cousin."  Frowning in concern, Lady Éowyn said, "I am sorry, Lord Boromir, if I should not be speaking of them, if it is inappropriate for me to do so – "

"No," I assured her, "it is not inappropriate.  There is no ill in their kin speaking of them, and remembering."

I gazed at the rose-tinged spire of the Tower, and beyond, to where the last spears of sunlight gleamed between Mindolluin's crags.  I thought of other hours spent here atop the White Tower, and as I thought of them, again I smiled.

I turned once more to face the sombre-eyed lady beside me.

"You never met our son, did you?" I asked. 

"No, My Lord.  Princess Théodhild had just learned that she was with child, when you made your last visit together to Edoras.  And I did not travel with Théoden King when he made his last visit here.  And after that … I am sorry.  I wish that I had met him."

"Aye.  I wish it as well."  I did not think I had taken the decision to continue speaking of him.  But as I stood there I realised that I wanted to speak of him, for perhaps the first time since he had died.

"Findemir learned to walk up here," I said.  "Well, not only up here, but … Théodhild used to bring Findemir up here with me at dawn, whenever I was home.  There was an old wolfhound that Théodhild had brought from Rohan – "

"Glessig," Éowyn put in eagerly.

"Yes, Glessig.  She used to come up here with us.  I half think that Glessig believed Findemir her own pup; she kept as sharp an eye out for him as any nursemaid.  She used to stand next to him, while he was sitting on the floor.  He would take hold of her fur and use it to pull himself up on his feet.  And then she would start walking, very slowly, all the while watching him, so that he could walk along with her.  I believe they must have covered several leagues' worth, at least, walking on this roof."

When I fell silent, Lady Éowyn asked quietly, "Does Glessig still live?"

It surprised me how much I wished that I could answer yes.  "No.  I'm sorry.  She lived perhaps another year after her mistress died."

"I am sorry," Éowyn murmured.  "I should have liked to see her."

A breeze had risen, rushing upward from the bosom of Anduin and setting the Banner of the Stewards snapping bravely on the spire above us.  The Lady of Rohan turned, to gaze again toward the east.

I thought that I should say something to her, while she stared as though her gaze could oversoar the distance and reveal to her the Black Gate itself.  I thought that I should give some words of comfort, some assurance that her brother and our army would win through safely and make their way home again in victory.

But there was no assurance.  There were no words I could speak that she would not recognise as simply the prayer of desperate hope.

I watched the last sheen of the sun sink behind Mindolluin.  I thought of Faramir, Imrahil, Éomer and the rest, perhaps now pitching camp for the night somewhere along the Morannon Road.  And I thought of standing here on the White Tower at sunrise, leaning against the parapet with Théodhild beside me, and watching while our son and his wolfhound nursemaid circled the Tower roof in their slow, patient march.

The sun sent forth one last spark and vanished in the mountain's darkness.

"I must go to my father," I said.  "I should consult with him before expanding the garrison."

Éowyn and I spoke little as we descended the Tower stairs, save only in greeting to the guards whom we passed.  At the door to my father's office, the guard there confirmed that the Steward was indeed gone to his chambers in the King's House.

_It's about time_, I thought.  _Maybe, if the Valar are truly kind, he will even be sensible enough to try getting some sleep_.

The Lady of Rohan walked with me until we reached the King's House.  There we parted, Éowyn saying in her quiet, solemn tones, "I thank you for sharing your time with me, My Lord.  It was good to speak of these things.  Of – of all of them."

"It was," I agreed.  "I hope that we will have the chance to speak again."

She nodded to me, then turned her steps toward her lodgings.  With the white of her skirt and the gold of her armour and her hair, she seemed to gleam like some spirit of light as she strode into the evening's shadows. 

The guards outside the Steward's chambers greeted me with worried looks, expressing a warning that it was not their place to put into words.  I nodded to them in thanks and steeled myself to face whatever Stewardly mood of which they hoped to warn me.

It took me three times of knocking on the door before my father's reply sounded with irritated tone, "Come."

As I stepped within and one of the guards pulled the door closed behind me, I was surprised to see that no lights had yet been lit in the room.  The table and chairs where the captains had dined together before the beginning of the siege were cleared to the sides of the chamber.  A folding desk and leathern camp chair were set up near the fireplace, but the hearth also lay dark and cold, with no cheerful blaze upon it to warm the room or banish its shadows.

In that shadow I saw my father, standing in silence beside the chamber's only source of light, the tall arched window that looked toward the east.  From this window he gazed, unmoving, the misty half-light showing him to my eyes less as a Man than as a grey and lifeless statue.  

"Sir?" I ventured, when he showed no sign of acknowledging my presence.  "Have you a few minutes that you can spare?"

            He slowly turned his head.  In the evening's faint light I saw his mouth twist in a mocking smile.

            "Who knows if I have a few minutes?" he mused, in tones almost too soft to be heard.  "Who knows what time any of us may have left, before the darkness and the fire come to swallow us up?"

            "Aye, My Lord," I said warily.  "If you do not wish to speak now, I can return at some other time."

            He gazed at me unspeaking for some moments, then he shook his head.  "No," he said, his breath gusting out in a sigh.  "You may remain.  Or leave, if you wish.  It does not matter."

            _What in blazes_? I wondered.

I sought in the events of the last few days for some means of explaining this mood.  I could think of nothing.  The Rohirrim's brush with the enemy was troubling, but we had suffered no serious casualties.  These increasing signs of enemy presence across the River should be nothing new to my father.  Such threats as these he had faced for decades, with his countenance undisturbed and with untroubled mind.   

            We had received no news from our army, but that, I told myself, was cause more for relief than for fear.  Our troops' successful progress was like to be marked by a lack of messages.  There was no cause to continually deplete their numbers in sending home messengers with nothing to report. 

And at least while they were close enough to Gondor for survivors to make it home, it was in the return of the surviving few that we were like to learn of any disastrous battle.

            _Of course_, I reminded myself, _there are battles so disastrous that none survive to return. _

            I thought in sudden dread of my conversation with Lady Éowyn.  Again I heard her asking me whether my father would tell me, if a vision informed him of disaster to Faramir or the others. 

"Have you received knowledge of the army, My Lord?" I asked, my stomach twisting in foreboding.  "Has some misfortune befallen them?"

            "I do not know," he said heavily.  "I have seen nothing of them." 

"Then – "

Another thought suddenly occurred to me.  I paused for a moment, afraid even to put that thought into words. 

"You have seen some vision of Frodo?" I forced myself to ask.  "You have seen that – that something has happened to him?"

My father gave a laugh, sharp, cold and bitter.  "Your little friend the Ringbearer?" he sneered.  "I have not.  I would that I had.  It would bring me no grief to see Fate overtake the one who has ensured our destruction.  I can think of few satisfactions greater.  Only seeing the deaths of those who sent him on his idiotic mission would afford me greater pleasure.  By the Valar, Boromir, I pray I will live to see the Wizard and his puppet king perish, as the Enemy takes to himself his Ring that they so graciously sent home to him."

Automatically I wanted to argue with him.  But I told myself there was no use in it – even less use now, with him in this frame of mind, than there was at any ordinary time. 

"You are in no mood to speak with me, sir," I said, bowing.  "I beg pardon for intruding upon you.  I will seek audience with you tomorrow."

Exhaustion seemed to take the place of his anger.  "No," he said.  "No, do not leave.  We will talk.  Sit down."

I made no move to do so, waiting for him to be seated himself.  Gazing at me once more, he took in a deep breath and straightened to his full height.  He tugged impatiently at his garments to correct some unevenness imperceptible to my eyes, then he crossed the room to take his seat behind his desk. 

"Sit down, Boromir," he repeated in tones of command.  "What was it that you wished to discuss with me?"

            Obediently I collected one of the chairs from the edge of the room and took my place at the far side of the Steward's desk.  I would still have been happier by far to make myself scarce.  But I had received an order – and who could say when next my father might be in the mood to hear my request at all?

"Sir," I began, "you have received the report of the patrol's encounter last night, and those from the Emyn Arnen garrison?"

He nodded impatiently, and I hastened on.  "I request your leave to increase the garrison at Osgiliath.  I believe that another two companies can be found, from the troops of the Outlands and the City Guard.  I would add another squadron of the Guard to the Rohirrim's patrols as well, if enough horses can be found to make that possible.  It seems now sufficiently clear that the City faces no immediate threat from our own side of the River.  There may be enough of the enemy concealed about the Ephel Dúath that we should expect attacks upon the eastern shore, perhaps sooner rather than later."   

            "Do as you will," said my father with a wave of his hand, seeming to take no interest in the words I had just uttered.  "It will make little difference, in the end."

            I forcibly stopped myself from yelling in frustration.  "In the end, sir?" I asked.  "In what end?"

            He eyed me with a look that seemed part of pity and part of disdain.  He said, "You do not wish to know."

            _Calm, Boromir, _ran my thoughts._  Stay calm_.  "I assure you, sir, if you have some intelligence which concerns the safety of Gondor, not only do wish to know it, I respectfully demand to know."

            Now any pity was gone from his gaze.  "You demand?" came his mocking echo.  "I could wish that you had been as forceful upon another occasion."

            _Valar's blood_, I wondered, _where are we going with this_?  "On what occasion, My Lord?"

My father sneered, "You should not need to ask.  I am referring to the occasion on which you held Gondor's safety in your hands, and you threw it from you as though your country's life were no more to you than rubbish."

            With fists clenched, I waited until I was certain that my voice would be calm before I answered.  "I'm afraid I do not yet understand you," I said.  "To what are you referring?"

            "Why, My Lord Boromir," came the Steward's reply, "I am referring to the day when the Captain-General of Gondor neglected to take unto himself the Ring of Power, when he thought the foolish wishes of a Hobbit of more value than the lives of his people."

            I sighed, as the accusation that was all too familiar to me from my own thoughts sounded again in my father's words. 

"We have trod this ground before," I said wearily.  "I fail to see what we gain by discussing it again.  How if I did seal Gondor's doom by failing to bring the Ring here?  We are never like to know whether that is so or not.  And we cannot change the past by arguing it now."

            "No," he said, in hollow, lifeless tones.  "No, we cannot."

            Of a sudden, all other thoughts and dreads faded to nothing beside my wish to take his despair from him.  I reached out and put my hand over his, where it rested on the desk. 

I more than half expected that he would pull his hand away.  But he did not.

            "My Lord," I said, "please tell me.  What is it that has brought this mood upon you?  What has changed since last we spoke?"

He smiled a winter-cold smile, his gaze as bleak as Caradhras' snows.  "When last we spoke," he said, "I believed there was yet a chance.  We had one last chance to be seized, and I had seized it.  Now that last gamble has failed." 

He jerked his hand from under mine, stood up and commenced pacing toward the window.  "I have now failed, even as did you.  And I cannot see any more chances left to us."

Automatically I stood, as respect dictated.  I held my position by the chair, warily watching the Lord my father's pacing.  "I don't understand," I said.  "What chance is it that you have taken, that has failed?"

Instead of answering, he fired back another question.  He stopped suddenly and whirled about to face me, demanding almost in a yell, "Why did you let it go?  Why did you not keep hold of it, when you held it in your hand?"

This time I had no need to ask to what he might be referring. 

"I am sorry, sir," was my helpless reply.  "Frodo was too swift for me.  And I was not certain in my course.  I dreaded to hurt him.  And I doubted, still, whether Elrond and Mithrandir might be right.  I believed them wrong.  I believed them too cautious; I thought their plan was the counsel of fools.  Yet I dreaded to take the Ring, lest events should prove them right after all." 

Bitter fury burned in my father's eyes.  "I thought I had at least one son who would choose action over fears.  I thought you had the courage and strength to strike the blow for your country.  I was wrong.  We have no hope left, Boromir.  Do you understand that?  None.  Strengthen your garrison; increase your patrols.  It is useless, all of it.  As useless as your friend Aragorn's expedition to the Black Gate.  We are children playing with toy soldiers while the house around us is burning."

He stared at me as though expecting an answer.  When I did not come up with one he turned abruptly and strode back to the window, where he stood once more gazing out toward the east.

I confess that I entertained longing thoughts of beating a retreat.  But the question of what "last chance" he had referred to still stood unanswered in my mind.

"Your pardon, sir."  Somehow I kept my voice calm, wishing all the while that I could scream out my demand to know what in hell he was talking about.  "You spoke of a last chance that you seized.  May I inquire again what you meant by that, My Lord?"

He gave a short, brittle chuckle, then he clutched his hands about his arms as though seized by a sudden chill. 

"Aye," he said without turning to look at me, "aye, you may inquire."

I thought, _If he does not give me some real answer soon, I'll have to take myself out of here before I start throwing things about the room_. 

"Sir?" I asked through gritted teeth.

Now he did turn back to me.  He stood a shadow among shadows, the evening light behind him nearly as dim as the room in which we stood. 

"I did what I had to do, Boromir," he said.  "The only thing I could do, since you failed to secure the Ring when you had the chance.  I sent out a company to find your precious Ringbearer, and to bring the Ring here – with its bearer if possible, without him if necessary.  Now those Men whom I sent are dead.  I have seen their corpses litter the rocks of Ephel Dúath.  And I can see no choice but to believe that our last hope has died with them."

I stared at my father as though I were stricken dumb. 

"My Lord," I managed at last.  "My Lord, I – "  I shook my head and started again.  "When did you send these Men?"

"They departed a full day before our noble king's expedition.  I would not have it said again that I am tardy in taking action against our Enemy.  Those Men whom I sent went first, but they will not be the last.  They will soon have a mighty fellowship of dead to join them.  I hope it may provide their souls some comfort, to know that they were the first to fall in Middle Earth's last great conflagration." 

I whispered, "Who did you send?"

"A company of Ithilien Rangers, under command of Damrod Son of Daeron."

I thought, _Faramir's Rangers_. 

"Sir," I protested, my mind crying out helplessly that I must be dreaming all of this, "sir, they were Faramir's Men."

"They were Gondor's Men," he snapped back.  "They were soldiers of Gondor, their lives at their country's command – as are all of our lives.  They understood that, as I had expected that you would understand it as well."

"What happened to them?" I persisted, fighting to stop myself from thinking of how deeply Faramir would grieve at this news.  "They were attacked?"

The Steward said as though losing patience with my questions, "I did not see the battle itself.  There were Orc corpses among them.  Not so many as I should care to see." 

"And – and they are all dead?  You saw them?"

"If any have survived, they can only be very few.  I saw no sign of any survivor.  Any who lives yet will be the darling of the Valar indeed if he can live to make his way home." 

I shook my head stupidly, then I ventured again, "Sir – this mission.  What if it had succeeded?"

"What if it had?  Why, then we would have the Enemy's Ring here.  We would have cause no longer to spend our waking moments trembling in terror that the Nameless One's great weapon may at any instant fall into his grasp.  And if it came to it, aye, if it came to it at last, in the end, we would have at least the chance of using his weapon against him.  One final chance which might have saved us, which now we shall never have."

"What of the army, My Lord?" I demanded.  "What of the seven thousand Men we sent forth on the decision of the council?  If your private mission had succeeded, if the Ring were brought here to you – would not the army's expedition, their almost certain deaths – would not their deaths be for nothing?  We sent them to Mordor as a diversion, that the Ringbearer might perhaps gain some slim chance of reaching his goal.  If you yourself had forestalled him, sir, what then would seven thousands of our Men be dying for?"

"They would still provide a diversion," my father said coldly.  "A diversion from their comrades who would bring the Ring to us.  But these 'ifs' are useless, Boromir.  Their mission has failed."

I murmured, stunned, "You would sacrifice Faramir – Uncle Imrahil – all of them – you would let them sacrifice themselves for a cause that you yourself sought to bring to nothing?"

"The cause is the same," he snapped.  "Their lives are sacrificed for Gondor.  It is not _my_ doing that their sacrifice must be in vain."

I had been clutching hard to the back of the chair in which I'd sat.  How hard, I did not realise, until with a dull snap the top slat of the chair-back broke loose in my hands.

Dazedly I looked down at the chair.  One side of it was still fixed in place, the other side dangled free of its moorings.  My father, it seemed, took no notice of it.  I looked up again and heard myself ask, "Does Faramir know you sent his Men?"

"I am not responsible for what Faramir may or may not know.  I did not discuss it with him.  Nor did I care to have the mission known to all and sundry, for reasons I should not have to explain to you.  The more who knew, the more likely that intelligence of it would make its way to the Enemy." 

"Was that the reason, sir?  Or was it because no Man in his right mind would ever agree to send forth such a mission?" 

"Eighty Men agreed to it," he snarled at me.  "Eighty Men of Gondor set forth without question, as was their duty.  As would thousands of others, did I ask it of them.   I am sorry to see that you are not among their number."

I stared at him, and I whispered, "I cannot believe that you would do this."

"Then you will never be the Steward that Gondor requires.  Gondor perhaps is fortunate that she will not now live to see the days of your reign."

His words would have hurt me bitterly, at any other time.  Now they seemed almost without meaning, amid the rest of this horror.

"It is madness," I murmured.  "It is madness.  You doomed those Men."

            "Aye, perhaps," he shot back in answer.  "Perhaps I doomed those Men, even as Mithrandir has doomed us all."

            "No."  I surprised myself by how vigorously I leapt now to defend Mithrandir's plan.  "No," I argued.  "It is not the same.  His plan had some chance of success.  A very slight chance, but it had some.  This had none." 

I shook my head, still half-hoping that I might awaken from out of this. 

"My gods, sir," I whispered, "why could you not let it go?"

            Haughtily he replied, "I am the Steward of Gondor.  I am not the Steward's Heir.  It is for me to fight for my country, beyond all hope.  I have not the luxury of giving up as easily as you do."

            "But there was no chance," I repeated helplessly.  "We both know how little likelihood there is of even two small Hobbits making their way through the wastes of Mordor unnoticed by the Enemy.  How then could eighty Men accomplish it?"

            "It was a chance – a very slight chance," he added, throwing back my own words against me, "against a certainty.  Now – " he shook his head, and his gaze moved once more from me, to the lands of the East beyond the window.  "Now it is over."

I stared down again at my damaged chair.  Cautiously I sat down, leaning forward to not put weight on the part that I had broken.

A portion of my mind still insisted that there must be some way out of this.  If I only found the proper combination of words to break the spell, all of it would be revealed as merely a conjuror's illusion.

I asked myself, _How did I let this happen_?

Faramir, I knew, would ask the same thing of himself.  But he at least had his wound as a contributing factor, in explaining how this insane expedition could have set forth without his knowledge.  Though Faramir was not like to accept that his wound absolved him of responsibility and blame.

_And I_, I thought, _I did not have the extenuating circumstance of a wound.  I should have realised what was happening, I should have noticed that a company of_ _Faramir's regiment was not otherwise accounted for.  I should have seen it.  I should have stopped it_.

_I should have stopped it_.

I laughed, the sound bordering on hysteria.

"What did you think would happen, sir?" I demanded.  "What did you think your mission would accomplish?  How were eighty Men to elude discovery in the very stronghold of the enemy?  And even if they did escape discovery for a time, how were they to track down the Halflings without bringing down the Dark Lord's eye upon themselves, the Halflings _and_ the Ring?  There was naught your mission could achieve save the very end we most dread!  Sauron himself could not have thought up a plan more suited to accomplish his goal!"

"Ha!" my father exclaimed, "My Lord Boromir, do you accuse _me_ of dreaming up unrealistic plans?  How will your friends the Wizard and his pet kingling answer the same accusation?  Am _I_ to be blamed for risking one last desperate throw of the dice, when it is the self-styled Steward of All Middle Earth who created the impossible pass in which we find ourselves now?"

My father was pacing again, forcing out his words with a feverish intensity as though he feared there was not time enough left to us to say all that he longed to say.  "Tell me that the plan I tried was madness.  I will answer you that yes, it was.  But it was a madness forced upon me by your Grey Fool, he who thought with his left hand to use me for a little while as a shield against Mordor, and with his right to bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me!

"How long has he known of the Ring of Power's existence – nay, of its very location?  Can you tell me that?  _I_ can tell you the answer to that, Lord Boromir.  It was now seventeen years past, as Mithrandir himself has told us, when your Ringbearer's uncle used the Ring in front of all his people, and when Gandalf Mithrandir suspected that this Hobbit's toy might be the One Ring.  Seventeen years!  What did he do for all those years?  What prevented him from acting then?  Why did he not send the Ring to Mount Doom before the Dark Lord realised its location and sent forth his Riders in search of it?

"And his beloved _Estel_, his Elven foster-child, his would-be king!  If he was indeed King in right and truth, why did he not act _before_ we teetered on the brink?  If he had the power to make that army of dead Oath-breakers follow him, why did he not do so seventeen years past?  Why did he and his ghostly minions not carry the Ring to Mordor and deposit it in the Mountain of Fire before Sauron's armies were massed against us, before the maw of death was opened to swallow us whole?"

I sprang to my feet and reached my father in two steps, seizing hold of his arms.  "Father, stop!" I yelled.  "Please, you must be calm, I beg of you – "

He wrenched free from me and laughed, a wild, snarling sound.  "I will answer you that, too!  The Wizard and his king did not act until all-but too late, and why?  So that Lord Aragorn could pose as the saviour of his country!  So that we would not have any strength left to resist him!  They chose this timing, Boromir, chose it so that we would be too desperate to take any course save to lick their boots and to follow where they led!  But they have waited too long.  They waited too long, and they will pay the price, and by the gods I am glad of it.  They miscalculated and now they will die with the rest of us, and if only I may witness that, at least I will smile as I die."

When my father stopped speaking, the sudden silence was stunning.  I stared at him, at his furious face and his blazing eyes.

There was much in what he said – much against which I wanted to argue; much also with which I agreed, or almost agreed.

Yet as I stood there, none of that seemed to matter.  I was thinking not of my father's tirade, not of Aragorn and Mithrandir and the timing of their plans.       

Instead I could only think of the Men my father had sent into Mordor.  Eighty Men, Men of my brother's regiment.  Men whose loss would wound Faramir to the heart, who now lay butchered in the mountains of Mordor – and all for nothing.

"Sir," I said, "I will not debate it with you.  In much that you have said, you have my full agreement.  But we have strayed from the point.  If you blame Aragorn and Mithrandir for wantonly throwing away our people's lives, for the sake of their plans – how then can you justify throwing away the lives of those eighty Men?  Throwing them away on a scheme that had no hope of success – save only to take some revenge upon the Wizard, by striking against the plan that he hatched, and by sealing the doom of his Ringbearer – if it is not sealed already."

"I justify it, Boromir, because with the Ring we might have some faint hope.  Without it, we have none."

His words hit me like ice racing through my blood.  In my mind I heard suddenly my own voice, crying out in same desperation that I heard now in my father's words.  _We do not desire the power of Wizard-lords, only strength to defend ourselves, strength in a just cause.  And behold! In our need, chance brings to light the Ring of Power.  It is a gift, I say; a gift to the foes of Mordor.  It is madness not to use it!_

"Would it bring us any hope, sir?" I asked.  "Or merely a swifter doom?  How can we know that it would not bring Sauron down upon us, to blast the Citadel asunder and reclaim his Ring from its ruins?  How can we know that you, or I, or Aragorn, or any of us could use it – without destroying ourselves and all of those about us, as surely as though Sauron himself had wrought our destruction?  It is his Ring, My Lord.  As such would it not continue to serve him, even when worn on your hand, or on mine?"

"We cannot know," my father answered softly.  In his eyes I read scorn, more piercing than any words of anger.  "We shall never know, since my attempt has failed, and since my sons lack the courage to take the chance."

At another time I would have angrily answered his words.  At that moment I wished for nothing more than to take myself out of his sight, as far and as fast as possible.

"Since the choices I have made offend you, My Lord," I said, "I will spare you the annoyance of my presence.  Good night."

I stalked from the room without looking back.  With a haste as though some army of demons raced at my heels, I made my way past the guards, down the stairs and out of the King's House, into the air of the night.

I gulped in a breath of the soft, cool air.  The waning moon was just starting to rise, and I thought of how its pale light would play on the faces of my brother's slain Men, their corpses scattered on the rocks of Ephel Dúath.

More slowly now I turned my steps to the Courtyard, and the Fountain.

Svip was already abed, asleep in the Fountain in his usual spot, his head on the carven stone at the centre with the falling water as his bed-curtain.

I sat down on the edge of the Fountain.

The singing of the Fountain called to my mind images of days long lost.  I could see my family in the sunlit Courtyard, all of us together.  I could see my father, with his hand on my shoulder, speaking to me of the history and lineage of the White Tree.  And I saw my mother, holding Faramir's shoulders to stop him from falling, as he stood on the Fountain's edge and laughed as he held out his hands into the bright mist of falling water.

I thought, _We will never be together again.  None of us will stand here as a family again, now_.

I leaned forward and put my face in my hands.

From behind me Svip's voice came hesitatingly, "Boromir?"

I straightened again and turned to face him.  He had sat up and was eyeing me worriedly through the water.

I asked him, "Do you fancy a trip to the River?"

"Of course," he said, knowing better than to ask why I wanted to make that trip now.

We spoke but little as we made our way to the Anduin.  We walked side by side until we left the confines of the Citadel, then travelled the rest of the way with Svip in horse form and I upon his back.  The Guards at the Harlond Gate forbore to question as they heaved the Gate open for us.  Our daily swims had become known enough to the garrison by this time.  It likely seemed to them little more strange for the Steward's son to go swimming at nightfall, than it did at dawn.

The blackness of the water seemed the perfect match for my thoughts.  As I cleaved through the inky water, down to the mud and rubble below, I wished that I never had to rise again back into the world.

The merciless refrain kept running through my thoughts: _Faramir will not forgive him_.

It was useless to remind myself that much could happen between now and Faramir's return – and that for all I knew, none of us would live to see that day.  My thoughts still sprang forward, unrelentingly, to the day when Faramir would return home.

When Faramir came home, when he learned what our father had done, I thought that I knew precisely what my brother would say. 

He would study our father with a gaze as cold and bitter as any of the Steward's own.  He would say, "You are my father no longer, sir.  You will not see me here again."  And he would leave, for Ithilien or whatever command the Steward still permitted to him.

And whatever I might say to them, and however many the years that passed, Faramir and our father would not speak to each other again.

It had come at last, the doom I had dreaded for so long, the breach between my father and my brother which could never be healed.

_Faramir will not forgive him_.

Faramir would not forgive him, and the family that I loved was gone. 


	20. Chapter Twenty: The Eye of the Enemy

Believe it or not, here is the next chapter – only three weeks after I posted the previous one!  I can't guarantee this kind of miracle for the next one, but I'll do my best.

To anyone who's trying to figure out how much more of this tale there is, I will end the suspense: if things remain as I think they will, there are twenty-six chapters to this book, including a brief-ish epilogue.  So, six more chapters to go.  I don't know if that's good news or bad, but at least you'll know it's not ending quite yet!

Happy reading, I hope!

Chapter Twenty:  The Eye of the Enemy

            As I broke through the water into the night air, I saw Svip close by me, eyes fixed on me in unblinking concern.  He must have been swimming beside me all the while when I was below, though I had seen him not.

            I tried to form a reassuring smile.  Then I turned and swam for the quay.  In the heaviness of my heart, my limbs felt like lead.

            I sat on our usual steps, my legs still in the water, and I stared across the Great River.

            Somewhere there, in the darkness beyond Anduin, lay the butchered corpses of eighty Ithilien Rangers, scattered on the boulders of the Mountains of Shadow. 

I bit back a curse at the thought that we could not even make any attempt to retrieve their bodies.  Even if my father were willing to tell me exactly where he had sent them, and if his vision had told him with any precision where their corpses could be found, retrieving them was a hope that could not be.  We could not risk more Men in that attempt – even if enough Men could be spared from our works of defence.  There they must lie, playthings of the sun and the wind, a banquet for the wolves and the crows and the flies. 

_Or worse_, my mind added, and I nearly cried out in grief as I thought of it, _a banquet for the Orcs themselves_.

And their Lord who had created their doom cared nothing for it. 

I tried to tell myself that my father's choice was no different from the other tactical decisions that any commander must make.  Too often all of us faced the decision to sacrifice some that we might save the greater number. 

Was my father right?  Had he indeed made the proper choice as Steward, and I, too swayed by my emotions, had closed my eyes against seeing that?

But, no.  It could not be, it could never be, the proper choice to send seven thousands to the Morannon, there to lay down their lives for the sake of a forlorn hope that the Steward himself sought to destroy.

The Men of Gondor and Rohan, of Dol Amroth and the Outlands, deserved better from their Steward.  They deserved to know what they were dying for.  And they deserved that their Steward be in common cause with them, not coldly spending their lives in a campaign that he alone had chosen, with no consent from the Council or the Captains or the thousands he sent to die.

Svip had scuttled out of the water and sat dripping on the step beside me.  Now he ventured, apprehensive yet determined, "Boromir?  Can you tell me what's happened?"

I groaned and rubbed my hands over my face.  "I don't know," I said.  But, I thought, I had to talk this through or else I would run mad.  Perhaps in speaking of it I might make some sense of it in my thoughts.  The Valar knew I could see little enough sense in it now.

Briefly and bitterly I recounted to Svip the interview that had just passed, feeling that I betrayed my Lord and father with each word I spoke.  But, I told myself, if there were any betrayal to be found in these events, it was my father's betrayal, not mine. 

"Valar," I murmured, when I had finished the tale, "I still cannot believe it of him.  He has not done this before, I am certain he has not.  He would not cast aside our Men's lives so cynically, he would not hurl from him the decisions of the Captains and the Council, to rule with no check upon the power of his whim – or maybe I am wrong.  Perhaps he has always been like this, and I have been too blind a fool ever to see it."

"No," Svip said, shaking his head vehemently.  "No, I don't think that's it at all.  These are worse times than Gondor's ever faced before, aren't they?  So they've driven your father farther than he's been driven before.  He still believed he was working for Gondor's safety.  Isn't that what you always say is the most important thing, the only thing that matters?  If it drove him to do things he hasn't done before – things maybe he shouldn't have done – he was still fighting for his country, for his people, for all of us."

            "It should not be the only thing that matters," I whispered.  "There have to be – there must be – some things that we will not do."  But as I said it the voice of my self-doubting sliced at me, insisting again in my father's voice that even had I murdered the Ringbearer it would have been a small price to pay for bringing the Ring to Gondor, perhaps to secure our people's salvation.

            Perhaps.  Only perhaps.  And perhaps instead to secure for us no salvation at all, to send us onward to our doom with none of our people saved and with innocent blood on my hands and my soul.

            Svip said, "What about the Ring?" 

I started guiltily, wondering for a moment if Svip had read my thoughts.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.  "What about it?"

"Maybe it made him do this.  Maybe it wasn't his choice at all; maybe it was the Ring's."

I sighed.  "Svip.  I appreciate what you're trying to do.  But that explanation won't work.  The Ring isn't here; you think it could reach out and control him all the way from Mordor?"

"Why not?  Didn't the Dark Lord make the Ring so he could rule everything?  Why shouldn't it be strong enough to find your father's thoughts, even from so far away?  If he was thinking about it anyway, then maybe his visions were bringing him closer to it, so it could reach him.  What if it caught him in a vision and made him believe its thoughts were his?"

"It's a ring," I scoffed.  "It does not think."

"How do you know it doesn't?  It isn't just any ring!  If it were just a ring, there wouldn't be armies and Wizards and Nazgûl running all over the world because of it!  Wouldn't the Dark Lord have made it to fight for him even if it wasn't with him?  Maybe – maybe the Ring knows what Pippin and Merry's friends are trying to do to it.  Maybe it knows it could be destroyed soon, and it's fighting to save itself, and it caught your father's thoughts in one of his visions and it's holding on to him, trying to make him save it."

Svip tilted his head to the side, studying my face.  My expression must have been clear for him to read, for he asked, "You don't want to believe that, do you?  Why don't you?"

I sighed again and looked away from him, watching how the torchlight off the Harlond Docks glimmered in the darkness of the River.

I said, "Magic is not the only explanation for why a Man might seek to take the Ring."

I had never told Svip how I parted from the Ringbearer.  I had never told him, and I'd told myself that it didn't matter.  It had nothing to do with him; it was nothing he needed to know.

Now I told myself that had been a lie.

Would he still think me a Man worthy of his friendship if he knew what I had done, if he knew how cruelly I had betrayed a friend whom I was sworn to protect?

"Svip – I have not told you what passed just before we met.  Just before I died."

The questioning gaze from Svip's big, trusting eyes almost unmanned my resolution to tell him of it.  Then I thought of the last look I had seen in Frodo's eyes – shock and betrayal and horror.  I told myself I did not deserve to keep any friendship won by hiding the truth of what I had done.

In grim and hurried tones, staring down at the water, I went on.

"I was never certain, Svip, never sure of the truth of what the Wizard and the Elves were telling us.  Sometimes I thought it made sense; sometimes I thought it was madness, to let what everyone said was so strong a weapon pass from our grasp without trying to use it.  I thought it would be a safer wager to try our luck at wielding the Ring of Power ourselves, than to let it pass into the Dark Lord's realm where it was most like simply to fall into his hands at last.

"I said as much, in Elrond Half-Elven's council.  My words the Wise ones scorned and brushed aside.  But I could not put the thoughts aside so easily.  And when our paths were set to part – when Frodo would have led us to Mordor, and I meant to turn my steps to Gondor – I thought I could not let him go without trying once more to convince him that I was right."

_Were you not at the Council?_ Frodo's voice asked me again in my memory.  _We cannot use it, and what is done with it turns to evil._

_Why not get rid of it?  Why not be rid of your doubt and fear?  You can lay the blame on me, if you will.  You can say that I was too strong and took it by force.  For I am too strong for you, Halfling._

I stared at my clenched fists, despising the words I had spoken then, despising my dread to tell Svip of them now.

I said, "He was not convinced.  And when he would not be convinced – I turned upon him.  I attacked him, sought to take the Ring from him.  If he had not escaped

using the Ring's gift of invisibility, I do not know what I might have done to him.  I think if he had continued to fight me and had not given in to my will, I might have killed him."

I tried to swallow back the sorrow that welled in me again, the grief and shame that had seized me there in the woods at Amon Hen.  Quietly I spoke, "I regretted my actions at once, when Frodo was gone.  I have regretted them ever since.  But regrets are not enough.  Even if the Ring could have saved Gondor – even that would not be enough to pay for Frodo's blood, or for my broken word."

"But you didn't kill him," Svip said in a voice that startled me with its excitement and eagerness, "you didn't kill him, and – and I'm right!  I told you so, I told you, I'm right!"

I stared in confusion at Svip's grinning face.  "What are you talking about?  You're right about what?"

"I'm right about the Ring!  It made you attack the Ringbearer, and it made your father send Faramir's Men after it."  My frown darkened, and Svip frowned in puzzlement in return.  "It makes sense, doesn't it?" he persisted.  "Why don't you want to believe it?"

Bitterly I snapped, "Because I am still Man enough to admit my own failings, rather than trying to shove responsibility for them onto a damned ring!"

"What about your father?  You said you can't believe he's done this; you don't believe he's done anything like this before.  Doesn't it make sense that he _wouldn't_ have done it, except for the Ring?  And if he wouldn't have done it, if it was the Ring guiding his thoughts, then maybe the Ring was guiding your thoughts, too.  If it can reach your father across Mordor and the mountains and the River, couldn't it reach you from a few feet away?"

"Svip, there's no proof of any of this."

"What kind of proof do you want?  Do you want so much to believe the Ring couldn't control you, you'd rather believe you'd murder Frodo and your father would murder eighty of Gondor's Men?"

"He didn't murder them," I said lamely.  But Svip's arguments had struck me more than I wanted to admit.  My thoughts were swirling about each other like Nazgûl circling in my brain. 

I did not know which possibility was harder for me to accept. 

That he who had sent those Men to their deaths was the same father I had always thought I knew? 

Or that the Lord Denethor could be controlled by anything, let alone by a magic ring that was hundreds of leagues away?

_And why not?_ my thoughts argued.  _You may not want to believe it, but Svip could very well be right._

_The Dark Lord did not forge just any trinket for himself.  It would not be called the Ring of Power for nothing.  _

_If you do not believe that it could control Men's thoughts, why should you believe it would have any power at all – power to save Gondor, or to cast Gondor down?_

            Svip was watching me expectantly.  I sighed.  "Svip," I said, "if you are right about this – and I do say 'if' – I would not have any idea what to do about it.  My father is not like to take kindly to the suggestion that he could be controlled by the Enemy's Ring, or by anything else."

            My friend gave a helpless shrug. 

"Damn it to hell," I murmured.  "I should not have left him."  Though I did not know what I thought I could have accomplished if I had not left.  Whether the Steward had committed to the course he'd followed in soundness of mind, or under some manner of evil influence – or, I added grimly, if he had wandered onto dark pathways with his mind clouded by the dreadful pressures weighing upon him – in no case was he likely to listen to any arguments from me. 

I decided, "I'll go back and try to speak with him again.  Although I am damned if I know what I am going to say to him." 

I thought, _I can hear it now.  By the way, My Lord, my friend Svip wants me to ask if you are under the Dark Lord's control_.

As it transpired, I had no need to decide what I would say to him.  Though I was none the happier for that reprieve.

When we came again to the King's House, we were informed by the guards that my father had left shortly after I did.  He had headed, they believed, for the White Tower.  A check with the Tower guards at the level of my father's office confirmed that the Steward had again climbed the Tower, to seclude himself in his chamber where custom and prudence both decreed that few would dare to disturb him.

I wondered if for this time I should throw custom and prudence aside.  Perhaps this was a time to go after him, pounding on the door and yelling at the top of my lungs, if need be, until he gave in and admitted me.

But again I ran against the question of what I could possibly say, or do. 

What was there to say that I had not said in our last encounter?  In his present mood, I shuddered to think of how he might react did I mention anything resembling Svip's theory. 

And what else was there to do?  Even at the best of times it would infuriate him for me to be trailing after him, watching for any sign of instability or weakness.

Now, when already his nerves seemed frayed past the point of safety, what would he make of it did I reveal to him that I feared for his health and his sanity?

As Svip and I once again turned our steps down the Tower stairs, I said, "Let us seek out Master Cosimo.  He has more regular contact with my father than does any other Man.  He may have some insight on my father's state of mind.  He may even have some usable advice."

We found Cosimo in his chambers in the King's House, near to my father's quarters: a suite of fairly good size, but furnished with little more luxury than a prison cell.  About the only nod toward comfort or entertainment that he permitted himself was a fine chess set carved of _mûmakil_ tusks, which in better times I knew he sometimes brought to the Steward's chambers at my father's request.  Cosimo even, on occasion, had won these chess matches with the Lord Steward, an achievement that very few others could boast.  The old seneschal had served my father long enough to know that even more than he detested losing, the Steward loathed the insulting dishonesty of anyone deliberately allowing him to win.

The chess set was in play as Svip and I arrived.  On this occasion the opposing generals were Master Cosimo and Pippin.

It was Pippin who opened the door, breaking into a startled grin at the sight of us.  Cosimo started to rise in order to bow, but I waved him back down, ordering, "Do not rise on my account, Master Cosimo.  You should torment your joints as little as possible."

"Aye, My Lord," Cosimo answered dourly, looking profoundly uncomfortable at staying seated while I was standing.  "Peregrin, fetch the chairs in the other room for Lord Boromir and Lord Svip."

This gesture of respect also perhaps did not go quite as Master Cosimo wished, for in the end Svip and I both helped Pippin to bring out the chairs, rather than leaving the Hobbit to struggle with them on his own.  I could easily have carried both, but I left one for Pippin and Svip to lug out between them, looking a bizarrely mismatched pair of sedan chair-carriers.  

When we were seated and I had respectfully declined the seneschal's offer of tea, we came at last to the purpose of my visit.  I spoke not of Rings of Power nor of enemy control, but asked only if there were anything Cosimo could tell me of my Lord father's health or state of mind in these recent days.

The old Man gave a frown like a thundercloud.  "He has ascended the Tower again, My Lord," was his bitter reply, "not even four hours from when he last descended from it!  And in that time he did not allow any of his attendants near him, to urge upon him any of the food that was prepared for him.  I believe while he was in his chambers he may have taken a little water, but that is all.  I do not know that he has any food or drink with him in his Tower chamber, although I pray that he does.  In these last days since the army departed, he has not touched any of the meals that we send up to him, nor will he open the door for those who bring them to him.  A curse is the only answer they receive, and often not even that, but only silence."

I asked the seneschal, "This is different from his usual behaviour when he retreats to the Tower?"

"It is different, My Lord.  Before, he would usually open to those who requested admittance of him – though they could expect a bitter tongue-lashing for disturbing his seclusion.  We do not make a practice of interrupting him often.  Yet always before we knew that if there was sufficient need for him to be reached, he could be.  And before, in even the worst of times, he always took at least a little food and drink.  Even when he mourned for you, My Lord, the dishes returned to the kitchen with a fragment of their contents picked from them.  Now he will not even bestir himself to do that!"

  The seneschal went on, concern and anger vying in his face.  "I have spoken already of these things with Master Pelendur.  He attempted to see the Lord Steward when he descended this evening.  But when Pelendur first arrived at the Steward's chambers, you were there in conference with him.  And when you had left and Master Pelendur sought admittance, the Steward himself stormed out of his chamber, snarled I know not what invective, and ordered the guards to detain Master Pelendur by force if he dared to follow the Lord Steward or attempt to stop him.  Our Lord then climbed again to the Tower, and we are back where we started."

"Hell and damnation," I murmured.  My Lord father's impatience was legendary, but it was rare for him not to extend at least a little consideration to Master Pelendur.  The two of them grew up together, and Pelendur had been Chief Healer of the Army during Lord Denethor's days as Steward's Heir and Captain-General of Gondor.  Pelendur's work was now devoted mainly to research.  There was little call for Pelendur to exercise his skills as Personal Healer to a Steward as impatient of physical weakness as my father.   

Yet always, I thought, my father had compelled himself to grant Pelendur admittance when the Healer sought it of him.  Even my father understood that if he were to rule Gondor as he should, he could not entirely ignore the health of his body.

Or at least, he had understood it before.

Grimly I requested that I be informed the moment my father next descended from the Tower.  But this time I went farther than that.  I told Master Cosimo, "I leave it to your judgement and to that of Master Pelendur.  If you feel that the time has come when he has been up there too long, when he can no longer in any safety go without sustenance, then summon me at once.  I will give my authority to break into his sanctum if need be.  It is not, of a certainty, the course that any of us would wish to follow.  But it may be that he will leave us no other choice."

Two days passed before that summons came.

I spent the rest of that evening in conference with Húrin of the Keys, the Master of the Armoury, the Captain of the Guard, and Marshal Elfhelm.  It was for us to perform the difficult juggling trick of scraping together another two companies for the Osgiliath garrison, and equipping a squadron of the City Guard to provide some slight reinforcement for the Rohirrim's patrols.

That precaution, at least, seemed unnecessary in the days that followed.  The Orcs were apparently none too eager now to bring the fight to us.  Traces of their continued presence were seen by the patrols and the Men of Emyn Arnen's watchtower.  But for the moment they kept to their holes in the Mountains of Shadow.

At Osgiliath we laboured on, re-building the east wall.  The wall swiftly reached a height and strength that perhaps it had not known since the days of Steward Boromir, half a millennium in the past. 

I should have taken joy and pride in this accomplishment.  It had long been a dream of mine to rebuild Osgiliath, but never had the need to defend our frontiers permitted of enough Men to make so large a project worthwhile.  Now at least the east wall held again something of its eminence of old. 

In better times it might have seemed a beacon, a token of greater achievements ahead.  But for me the work seemed little beyond an ineffective attempt to distract myself, from my dread for my father and for our Men advancing on the Black Gate.

The day after my encounter with my father was spent again in training by Svip and the Lady Éowyn.  The number of horses under Éowyn's instruction we had halved from eight to four, the other four being among the mounts for our increased patrols. 

The training, it seemed, was still going well, to judge by Svip's report.  It was with effort that I forced myself to listen to him and to comment in the appropriate places.  My mind was filled with speculations on the cause of my father's actions.  And it was filled as well with both hope and fear.

I hoped to receive word that the Steward had descended from the Tower on his own.  I feared that first would come the request from Cosimo and Pelendur, seeking authorisation to break into the Lord Steward's eyrie.

It was needless to say that my father would be furious with us for taking such a liberty – if he were hale enough in body and mind to _be_ furious.

I told myself that I looked forward to his fury.  It would be better, far better, than the alternatives.

In the afternoon of the second day, when Lady Éowyn was again on patrol and Svip was working with me upon the east wall, a Messenger from the Citadel rode to Osgiliath with a letter for me from Master Cosimo.

 The seneschal wrote that as the Lord Steward had not yet descended nor emerged to take any of the food brought to him by his attendants, Cosimo had again taken counsel with the Healer Pelendur.  The two of them judged that they could hold back no longer from demanding the Steward's attention. 

Their attempts to bring him to his chamber door, or to illicit from him any reply whatever, had met with nothing but silence.

Cosimo entreated that I come at once to the White Tower, and that I give my authority for entering the Lord Steward's chamber.

Svip and I rode at once for Minas Tirith.  Our route along the River felt to me that day long enough to drive me to madness.

My father's silence, I told myself, need be no cause for fear.  Had not Cosimo told me that more often than not since our army's departure, the Steward had not deigned to answer those who brought his meals to his door?  And he had still descended from the Tower, that silence notwithstanding.

_But it is another two days_, I thought.  _Another two days, when he has perhaps had nothing to eat or to drink.  And if they have heard nothing from him, not one word_ …

In the darkest corners of my mind lurked the fear that they had heard no word from him because he no longer lived to answer.

It seemed that rumour had spread throughout the Citadel of the unprecedented action I was about to authorise.  The nervous whispers of the guards broke off guiltily as the Men at each guard post caught sight of us. 

In the uppermost guardroom they were not whispering.  The two posted here sat in grim silence.  They leapt up to salute as I climbed into view with Svip scurrying behind me.

"My Lord," said the younger of the two guards, "we are all praying, Lord, that there is nothing amiss."

I nodded, and told him after a moment's thought, "You had best come up with us.  We may require your assistance."

Assistance for what, none of us wanted to say or to think.

The trap door was standing open, and those above were already apprised of our arrival.  We emerged to find the guardsman on duty on the Tower roof, Master Pelendur, Pippin, and Master Cosimo.  Pippin and Pelendur hastened forward to greet me, and I noted a large, hard-sided leathern case hanging from Pelendur's shoulder.  The guard held back respectfully, and Master Cosimo, leaning on a staff, did not move from where he stood by the door to my father's chamber. 

I thought, indeed, that it was likely he could not move, not at least without a great deal of pain.  I was astounded and shocked to see him up here at all, for the thousand steps and the ladder at the end of them must have been torture to him.

"Cosimo," I said, "you should not have come up here; it was foolish.  You will injure yourself, and you know my father does not wish that."

"I have to be here, My Lord," the old Man replied.  His tone and expression both seemed a mixture of fierce pride and barely-controlled grief.

"Very well," I told him quietly.  "I thank you."  Cosimo, I knew, would think there no need for such thanks.  He had been my father's seneschal nigh on seventy-five years.  He would think it a personal failure if he were not here – now that, as must have occurred to him as well as to me, the end might be come at last.

_The end is not come_, I insisted to myself.  _It is not.  There is some other explanation to it; it is not what we are dreading._

_My father is still alive._

I asked, though I knew the answer, "You have already attempted to attract his attention?"

"We have, My Lord," Master Pelendur said grimly.  "A good many times."  The Healer looked little better than the seneschal, though he was vastly more fit to make the climb.  As the Personal Healer to the Steward, he would think it his own failure if what we feared proved to be true.

Pelendur continued, "We have only awaited your approval to go in; the Corporal here is confident that he can deal with the lock."

"Well, that is, I guess that I can, My Lord," the guard said in some confusion, blushing at any possible suggestion that he was in the habit of picking the Citadel's locks.

Svip and Pippin both drew close to me.  All were watching me, and I knew there was no longer any excuse for delay.

Turning from their dread-filled faces, I pounded my fist upon the door.

"My Lord!" I shouted.  "Sir, it is Boromir.  Please, I must speak with you, My Lord."

We waited.  Not a sound or a stir of movement answered.

I pounded on the door again, yelling, "Sir, I entreat you.  Give me some answer.  Give some sign that you are there and you can hear us; that is all we ask of you."

Again nothing.  Pippin gave a tiny whimper, the only sound beneath the calling of the wind and the steady snapping of the Banner of the Stewards.

"Sir, I am sorry.  If you do not answer, we must enter without your leave.  We wish only to speak with you, Father.  Please, My Lord, answer me!"

No answer came.  I looked at the blazing-eyed Cosimo, trembling now as he leaned more heavily upon his staff, and at grey-faced Master Pelendur, his expression as grim as though he gazed on a battlefield strewn with the dead and dying.  Looking past them to the guards, I nodded.

"Do it," I commanded.  "I take full responsibility."

The rest of us stepped aside while the guards moved reluctantly forward.  The Corporal had drawn his dagger and used it now to pry into the mechanism of the lock. 

I glanced down at my small friends, both of them staring in fascinated fear as the guard turned his dagger in the lock.  Briefly I patted Pippin's head, receiving a desperately faint smile from him in return, then I put my hand on Svip's shoulder.  I could feel him shivering beneath my hand.

With a portentous _thwack_ that I think made all of us jump, the latch drew back.  Looking to me, the Corporal got swiftly to his feet.  He and his comrade stepped away from the door as though it were the entrance to the Dark Tower itself.

I walked to the door and pulled it open, fighting not to think of any of the possibilities that might await us.

The only light in the room came in slivers between the boards of the shuttered windows, and through the now-open door.  Dust motes danced in the column of light.  As I walked within, the room appeared to me unchanged from the few times I had seen it.  There was the big table and the dark carven chair, unsoftened by any cushion that might pander to human weakness.  There was the canvas cot, folded now and leaned against the wall, there the two glass-fronted bookcases with their meticulous stacks of rolled maps and the massive, red leather-bound volumes of the Chronicles of Gondor.  On the walls hung the same ancient tapestries, their faded threads forming scenes of Númenor and Arnor that seemed to move in ghostly life as air sweeping through the door set the tapestries stirring gently.

There was no sign of the Lord my father.

The others had cautiously followed me.  Pippin gasped out, "Where is he?"

"He was here, My Lord!" one of the guards exclaimed.  "All of us will swear to it!  He has not descended in these two days; he _could_ not have descended without our seeing!"

"There is an attic room," I said.  "I should remember how to reach it."

I strode across the room to the tapestry showing Tar-Minastir's army setting forth to the aid of Gil-galad.  Pulling the tapestry aside, I saw indeed the knot in the wood that concealed the latch of the hidden door. 

It was thirty years since I had last tried that door, since Faramir had shown to me the secret hiding place he'd discovered in which to read his books undisturbed.  Faramir's discovery had been made while the Steward and I were on a tour of the border fortresses.  Father caught us in his attic chamber shortly after he and I returned, and the punishments he decreed upon us – Faramir forbidden to enter the library for a month, and I banned from taking part in the School of Arms' fencing competition – had fulfilled their purpose of ensuring that we would never venture into the hidden chamber again.

_Inflict whatever punishment you like on me now, Father_, I thought, as I took hold of the latch and pulled the door open to its soft creak of protest.  _I will miss as many fencing competitions as you please.  Only I beg you, be alive to inflict the punishment_.

As I'd remembered, a rough, ladder-like staircase led to a square opening cut in the floorboards above.  Pale, dusty light filtered down through the opening, from the un-shuttered windows in the Tower's peak.

I called, "Father, can you hear me?  It is Boromir.  If you are there, please answer me, My Lord."

Again no answer came.  I turned to the others, holding back in hesitation near the chamber's outer door.

"I will go up first alone," I said, "but stand ready to follow at once, should I call."

As I started up the steps, my thoughts grimly reminded me that there was no way Father could have failed to hear us, if he were up there and conscious to hear.  Sound travelled easily from the main chamber to the one above.  When Father caught Faramir and me, we had heard him from the moment he walked into the room below.

I reached the opening and climbed up through it, pausing on the step below the upper floor.

When Faramir showed me the attic room, it had been empty of furniture and of everything else.  Now it held a small, simple square table and an unadorned chair.  In that chair sat my father, facing toward me but with no sign of seeing me at all.  He was staring instead at something on the table before him: a smooth, black globe of glass or some type of stone, just larger than he could span with his two hands.  His hands were pressed to either side of the globe.  He sat so still that I feared indeed he had died, and rigor had frozen him in his place in a mockery of life.

I stepped into the room, ducking to keep from knocking my head on the sloping roof.

"Father?" I asked softly as I walked toward him.  

He still made no move or sound, but as I reached his side I saw that he was breathing, with a slight rise and fall of the robes over his chest.  As I watched, I saw him blink, then his eyes returned to their glassy stare.

"Father," I whispered again.  "Please, speak to me, My Lord."

Slowly I reached toward his hand.

I touched the back of his hand, and suddenly he moved.

Springing from his chair, he yanked the black globe out of my reach, holding it up by his shoulder as though he meant to hurl it at me.

"Stay back!" he hissed.  "Do not touch it, do not look at it!  You do not wish to see."

"My Lord," I protested, struggling to achieve a calming tone in my voice, "I will not touch it.  I only wish to talk with you, sir."

"Talk!" he laughed wildly, "talk!  We have had talk enough and more!  There was talk enough in the Council of the Wise, when they sent their poor fool of a Ringbearer to deliver the Enemy's weapon to his waiting hands!  Talk will not save your beloved Ringbearer!  Talk will not save your brother, when he rides into battle before the Black Gate!"

In the corner of my eye I saw someone appear through the opening from the stairs; Master Pelendur, I thought, though I could not be sure.  Even if it were Pelendur, I could not think of anything he might be able to do.  I very much doubted that the Healer would have any better luck at calming the Lord Steward than I was having.

"Will you not share the daymeal with me, sir?" I said.  "You must be in need of food and drink; you have been up here two days.  We will dine together and then if it pleases you, we will discuss our next moves – "   

"Our next moves will be to die!  That, I think, we can achieve without much discussion!"

"Please, Father, if you will only be calm – "

"Calm!  Aye, Master Boromir, aye, I will be calm when I am dead!  All of Middle Earth will soon be calm!"

"Sir, while we live there is yet hope."

"Is there, My Lord?" he fired back mockingly, "is there, indeed?  Tell that to your brother and your uncle and your damned fool of a Grey Wanderer!  Tell that to your Ringbearer and his lackey, as they lie in the torture chambers of Barad-dûr!"  

I heard a grief-stricken cry from Pippin, over by the stairs.  Hoping somehow that if we kept talking, the conversation would turn until my father was in a calmer frame of mind, I asked, "My Lord, will you tell me what it is you have seen?"

"Dwarf-coat, Elf-cloak, blade of the downfallen West, and a spy from the little rat-land of the Shire!  Sauron does not love spies.  Now he will endure the slow torment of years, as long and slow as the arts of the Great Tower can contrive.  The drums are rolling.  The Gate is opening, Boromir.  They are trapped, all of them, they are surrounded, the White Tree and the White Horse and the Silver Swan.  They have drawn back to the mounds; seas of enemies around them, circling them, ten times their number, closing in."

"Sir," I argued, "you have told me often that visions do not always show the truth of what is, or will be.  This doom you have seen may not be certain, it may yet be turned aside – "

Pippin cried out suddenly from the direction of the stairwell, "Boromir, it's a seeing-stone!  A _palantír_!  Like Saruman had and the Dark Lord used to talk to him!"

With jaw dropped, I stared at the night-black globe my father clutched in his hands.

Pippin was still yelling desperately, "It's a _palantír_, the Dark Lord can use it, he could be using it to see us, he could be here now!"

His eyes wild as those of a cornered animal, my father followed my gaze to the _palantír_, then looked again at me.

Striving to put aside my amazement and dread, I tried again.  "Sir, let us dine together.  Even you must have meat and drink, My Lord.  Let us eat, and perhaps you will take a little rest; then we will be better able to meet the challenges that face us – "

"You will take it," he said, in a strange voice, of accusation but also of dread.  "You will send Men to take it while I sleep.  You will take it, but you must not.  You do not know what you will see."

"Father, no one will take it.  It is safe here; no Man will take it from you.  Only come and eat with me, My Lord.  We need not descend from the Tower; we can take our daymeal in your room below, if you will.  Then you need not be far from it, you can check that it is safe, you can see for yourself that no one goes near to it – "

My father whispered, "I cannot risk it.  You do not know, you cannot know, what it might show, what we might miss if I am not here to see.  If there is a chance, any chance – would you condemn your brother, all our people; would you have me condemn us all to death by turning my gaze aside now?"

"Then keep it with you, sir," I said.  "Keep it by you while we eat; then you will see, if it shows anything that we must learn.  Please, sir, you must keep up your strength.  Only take a little food and drink, you will be revived, you will have the strength you need to take up the fight again."

A flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, my father glanced toward the _palantír_.

The moment his eyes left me, I lunged to grab it from him.

Pippin screamed out, "Boromir, no, don't touch it!"

For the briefest instant one of my hands brushed against its smooth and cold surface.  Then my father lurched away from me, ducking back into the shelter of the down-sloping roof and drawing the sword that he wore.  I managed to jump back, scarce an inch from getting my father's sword-point in my gut.

"You will not take it," he declared, his ringing voice such as would befit the field of battle.  "You will not take it while I live."

A Man who had been standing by the stairs was now starting slowly and cautiously toward him.  It was one of the guards, I thought, though I did not want to draw my father's gaze to him by looking at him directly. 

The Man's caution had not been enough.  The Lord Steward suddenly wheeled toward him, swinging his sword in a great arc and causing the guard to leap back and smack his head on the roof.

Fearing that my father would follow up his advantage and skewer his own guardsman, I drew my sword and yelled at him, "Turn, My Lord, and face me!"

Lord Denethor wheeled again with a bitter laugh, the _palantír_ held high in his left hand and his sword brandished in his right.  "Ha!" he cried.  "You show yourself in your true colours now.  All your sweet words, your kind protestations, the lovingkindness of the dutiful son.  All now shown for what they are: the blandishments of a traitor, the noxious lies of one who is the slave of the Enemy!"

I couldn't get a very good look at them, but I was fairly certain that my comrades clustered by the stairs were making gestures at me to signify that I should keep him busy and they would grab him.  At any event, that was the sort of plan I would try if I were in their place.  So I yelled in challenge, "Fight me, My Lord!  Let he who loses be the Enemy's slave, and he who wins, take both the _palantír_ and the White Rod of the Steward."

"We shall all be his slaves soon enough," my father snarled.  "His slaves, or dead; and I think the dead will have the better of the bargain."

My father made several thrusts at me, which I parried with relative ease.  He had been drawn out from his defensive position under the slope of the roof; now I wondered if I might drive him back there, to possibly hit his head on that same ceiling.  But where the roof was lower, it would be more difficult for the others to reach him. 

As I was contemplating this, he made a feint, followed by a thrust that caught me by surprise.  I managed to parry just short of finding his sword in my sternum.

I was probably stronger than my Lord father, simply by dint of our respective ages.  But I was deluded if I thought myself the more cunning fighter.  My odds were not improved by the fact that I was trying not to kill him, whilst he at that moment seemed perfectly happy to kill me.

_Distract him_, I thought.  If my companions felt they had not yet seen an opportune moment to strike, it was up to me to provide one for them.

I started to fall back, retreating a step for each thrust that I parried.  The lure worked, and he followed me, attacking with ever-greater ferocity – and turning his back more fully on the guards, the Healer, and the halflings.

Some noise of their movement alerted him, and the Steward turned, swinging again at one of the guardsmen.  But this time the Man had drawn his own sword, and he parried the blow.  Before my father was able to set himself on guard once more, the others hurled themselves upon him: the other guard seizing his sword-arm and Master Pelendur grabbing his left arm, yet holding the _palantír_ aloft.  In a blur of motion at our feet, Svip and Pippin launched themselves at him, each seizing hold of one of his legs.

He gave a yell of fury as he struggled in their grasp.  I leapt into the fight, striking his sword with my own with all the force I could summon.  I thought I could feel his grip on the sword weaken.  I caught his blade near the hilt with my swordguard, twisted, and the sword was wrenched from his hand.

My father was yelling in rage, "Traitors!  Renegades!  Minions of Barad-dûr!  What has he promised you for this treachery?  Whatever he promised, you will not live to collect it!  He will slay you himself.  He knows that servants who betray their old master may next betray their new one.  He will peel your lives from you through long decades of torment!  As you die, think of Denethor Son of Ecthelion, the Lord whom you betrayed!"

A change was coming over the _palantír_.  It was ink-black no longer.  Deep within it grew a red glow, as though a fire burned in the heart of it and was spreading now to swallow the entire globe.

"I'm sorry, Father," I said.  I sheathed my sword and took hold of the globe with both hands.  With all my strength, I pulled at it, and I felt my father's grasp slipping from off the black, fiery orb.

It slid free of his hand, and I staggered back with it in both of mine.  My father gave a roaring scream of fury and madness.

In a surge of strength he tore loose of the guard and Master Pelendur.  Though Pippin and Svip still clung to his legs, he launched himself at me, closing his hands about my neck.

Only for an instant we grappled thus.  I hurled the _palantír_ aside, and heard a crack as though all the floor would shatter beneath us.  I brought up my hands and dragged my father's hands from my neck.  Before he could leap at me again, I closed my right fist and struck him in the jaw, praying in my thoughts not to hurt him badly, and that he would forgive me.

He staggered backward, still dragging Svip and Pippin with him.  Master Pelendur caught him by the shoulders. 

My father blinked at me.  His eyes seemed cloudy and only half-conscious.  Still supporting him with one arm, Pelendur brought a goblet to the Steward's lips, urging him to drink.

He obeyed.  As Master Pelendur brought the goblet down again, the Lord Steward put a hand to his forehead, then gazed about him in confusion. 

The Healer looked down at Pippin and Svip, still clinging to the Steward's legs.  Gently he said, "I think it will be all right for you to let go of him now."

The two halflings did so with alacrity, both scrambling to their feet and running to my side.

My father glanced down at them, then again at me.  I saw him stagger a little.  He looked sharply at Pelendur, with accusation in his gaze.  But before he could speak, his head was already drooping.  He clutched to Pelendur's shoulder in a bid to hold himself upright.

"Guards," Pelendur ordered quietly, "take him to the room below.  I saw a cot against the wall …?"

"Aye," confirmed the one of our comrades who had not taken part in the struggle: Master Cosimo, standing in the stairwell and staring at the Lord Steward in undisguised horror.  He said, "I'll set it up."  The old Man made haste to hobble down the stairs, his staff thudding hollowly against each step.

"The sleeping draught I gave him should last at least three hours," Pelendur informed me, as the guards gingerly took the Steward from his arms.  My father seemed fully unconscious now, slumping against one of the guards.  There was some relief on their faces as they made shift to pick him up and carry him to the stairs.

Pelendur followed the guards and their burden.  Meantime my two small friends were warily investigating a perfect round hole that had been torn through the floor beside me, showing clear into the room below.

"The _palantír_," Pippin said in a shaking voice.  "It broke through the floor."  He looked up at me in alarm.  "We mustn't let anyone touch it."

I nodded.  The guards, from the sound of things, had made it to the lower room, and the top of Pelendur's head was just moving out of sight in the stairwell.  I hastened to follow, Pippin and Svip scurrying at my heels.

In my father's chamber, Pelendur and Cosimo both knelt by the cot where the Steward lay.  Cosimo held one of my father's hands, ignoring again the pain that must be punishing him for kneeling thus.  Master Pelendur lifted each eyelid to check on the Steward's eyes.  He sighed and spoke in a low voice to Cosimo, then he attempted to smooth Lord Denethor's disordered black hair back from his gaunt, pallid face.

The two guards stood by uncertainly.  One of them, the Corporal, was staring at the table – or rather, at something that sat upon it.

The _palantír_, after rending through the floorboards above, had apparently come to a gentle rest at the table's edge.  I looked up at the hole in the ceiling, then at the shining dark orb, which seemed to have landed without causing any damage to the table beneath it.

The globe seemed almost entirely black again now, but there was still something, a glow of red smouldering at the centre of it.

Pippin gave a little hiss of "No!  Don't!" as the guard took a step toward it.

"Do not touch it," I ordered.  "Do not touch it, and stay back from it."

"Aye, My Lord, gladly," said the Corporal, hurriedly stepping back to stand beside his comrade.

I looked down to the pale and haunted-eyed Hobbit.

"Pippin," I asked, "what do you know of this thing?"

He hesitated fearfully.  When he spoke, it was in a rush, his words tumbling one over the other. 

"It's like the one Saruman had, at Orthanc.  You remember, Gandalf and Aragorn spoke of it, at the council.  The one at Orthanc – the Dark Lord was using it to give his orders to Saruman.  That Gríma Wormtongue threw it at us from a tower window, and it fell ever so far and it landed on stone, but it didn't break.  I picked it up and gave it to Gandalf, but I was – I was curious about it, and when Gandalf was asleep I snuck it from him and I – and I looked at it."

"What happened?" Svip whispered.

A great shudder suddenly shook the young Hobbit.  He covered his face with his hands.

Awkwardly I put my hand on his shoulder.  Pippin's voice was muffled but still plain to hear, as he went on, "He spoke to me!  He spoke to me, in my head.  It was like being stabbed with knives."  Pippin gulped in a breath and lowered his hands from his face.  "Gandalf said there wasn't much harm done, that I hadn't told him anything.  But – it's got to be put away somewhere, where nobody will touch it.  We mustn't let anyone look in it, _ever_."

I looked over at my father, quiet and still upon the cot.

His bone-white face, the anguished concern in Cosimo's gaze, the grim set of Master Pelendur's jaw, all blurred before my eyes as I thought of what this discovery of ours must mean.

I thought, _Svip's theory was right_.

The notion that the Dark Lord's Ring could reach out to us from Mordor and somehow take hold of my Lord father's thoughts, had stretched my credulity to the breaking point.  But this, that the agent of his control should be not the Ring but one of the seven seeing-stones, was only too easy for me to believe.

 The _palantíri_ were created that their masters might communicate one with the other.  If one were in my father's grasp and another were in Sauron's, it took no great leap of understanding to see how the insinuations of the Dark Lord might work their way into my father's mind.

 Rage was welling in me, though I told myself it was naïvety and foolishness to waste my time on that emotion.

_What did you expect?_  I demanded of myself.  _The Lord Sauron has never shown himself an honourable opponent.  He wishes only to win.  The rules of combat invented by mere Men are nothing to him.  You cannot be feeling betrayed that the Dark Lord would use all the tools at his command, that he would fight on the field and in the homes of his enemies alike_.

But the thought of how my father must have been trapped set fury burning within me. 

The Enemy had used, as the lure to ensnare him, his need to learn all he could to help his country.  That which had guided him through his life, his love and concern for our people, was become the trap that had brought him down.

"Boromir," Svip whispered urgently, tugging on my sleeve and seeing, no doubt, the rage that must have shown clear on my face.  "Boromir, be careful, you don't want to do anything rash – "

They were sensible words, but I cared nothing for them. 

"Bastard," I muttered, staring toward the seeing-stone.  "Filthy, bloody bastard."

I shook free from Svip's hand and strode to the table where sat the _palantír_.  I gazed in hatred at its smooth black surface and the red glow spreading from its core.

Pippin shouted, "No, Boromir, don't!" as I drew my sword, raised it high and sliced it down upon the dark, gleaming orb.

Our tragedy was transformed for a moment into comedy of the most farcical kind. 

The _palantír_, far from shattering beneath the blow, instead slipped from under my sword, and the blade was embedded in the table.  Meantime the seeing-stone shot free like the missile from a catapult.  It slammed into the wall near the door and ricocheted back again to fly the breadth of the room, causing all of us to scatter, duck or throw ourselves to the floor as the _palantír_ shot past.

The stone hit the far wall and dropped to the floor.  There it rolled across the room again, until, like a well-trained dog, it came to a halt at my feet.

Pippin was yelling, "Boromir, I told you, it won't break, you can't break it – "

I listened to him no more than to Svip.

Feeling I would choke on my fury and outrage, knowing my actions were those of a fool and a child but not bringing myself to care, I picked up the stone of seeing and shouted at it as I clutched it in my hand.

"Do not touch my father!"  I yelled.  "Do not touch my father!  If you hurt him again, I will kill you!  I will kill you!"

The crimson fire within it was spreading, burning away the last of the blackness.  If some answer might have come to me from the master of the stone, I do not know, for I did not wait to hear it.  With a wordless shout of rage, I brought back my hand and hurled the _palantír _from me, through the open door.  It soared across the Tower battlement and vanished over the parapet's edge.

Svip and Pippin both ran to me.  The Hobbit pummelled my arm with his fists, crying wildly, "I told you, I told you, it won't break, it's down there, someone will find it, someone will pick it up!"

I stared down at my young friend, feeling my anger ebb into a feeling of weary emptiness.  I groaned, "Bloody hell."

I wrenched my sword free of the table, sheathed it and hastened onto the battlement.  I leaned over the parapet, seeking some sight of the _palantír_.  Pippin and Svip had hurried out with me, but were too short by far to add their eyes to the search.

"Can you see it?" Pippin asked.

"No – wait," I said.  "Yes.  There it is."  Cold dread rushed through me at the sight of the black globe far below, looking as harmless as a child's ball.  "Up against the Citadel wall, near the Court of the Fountain."  I looked for the Men on guard duty and found them in their places, two by the Citadel Gate and two at the entrance to the Tower.

"No one's near it at the moment," I went on, "the guards must not have seen it fall.  Damn," I thought aloud, "We need a place of safety for it, where none is like to find it – "  I shook my head and added in a whisper, "And whence my father will not be able to retrieve it." 

A nightmare image leapt into my thoughts of the Steward recovering consciousness, talking or fighting his way free of whatever attendants were with him, and going unerringly to wherever I might have concealed the _palantír_, in treasury strong-box, storeroom vault or dungeon cell. 

I murmured, "Valar help me, I do not want it anywhere near him."

Svip spoke up suddenly, "What about in the River?  Like the – like the Enemy's weapon?  In Mithrandir's story it was in a river for years on years, before that Gollum found it.  I can go get it and take it and bury in the mud, in the River – if Pippin will come with me," he added.  "I won't be able to carry it, if I go to the River as a horse."

Pippin nodded.  "I'll go with you," he said emphatically.

I hesitated as I looked at my two friends, wanting to leap at their offer but dreading to put them in the _palantír_'s way.   

"You will be cautious?" I asked them.  "You will not touch it directly, nor look into it?"  That advice was pretty rich, coming from me, but my comrades loyally did not point that out to me.

"I promise," said Pippin.  "I can wrap it in my cloak.  I never want to look into one of those things again.  I wouldn't look at it – not for all the mushrooms in Middle Earth!"

"And you, Svip?  You promise it as well?"

"I promise," the water creature answered solemnly.  "I won't look in it or touch it.  I swear it by – by my loyalty to your father."

It might have seemed a strange oath to take, coming from one who had met my father scarce ten days past.  But I did not doubt for a moment that Svip meant it in faith and truth.

"All right," I said.  "Go, but be careful!"

I watched as they scrambled down the ladder into the guardroom below.  As Svip and Pippin ran for the Tower stairs and vanished from my sight, I called through the trapdoor to the guard, "The Lord Steward has been taken ill; we will soon be bringing him through here.  Stand ready to give any assistance necessary."

As the guard gave his startled but fervent agreement, I turned with heavy heart back to my father's chamber.

Those within had recovered themselves from any disorder caused by my foolish assault on the _palantír_.  Cosimo and Pelendur still crouched by my father, watching over him in concern and helplessness.  The two guards stood against one of the tapestries, looking more worried and helpless still.

I went to the cot and knelt by my father's side, taking his hand that was not held by Cosimo.  I looked at him for a moment, cursing in my thoughts at how aged and fragile he appeared.  Then I glanced up to meet the old seneschal's grief-stricken gaze.

"Cosimo," I said, "you should not be kneeling thus.  Your knees and hips will never forgive you.  Get up, for the Valar's sake.  My father will take me to task for allowing you to bring this pain on yourself."

"It does not matter, My Lord," he said.  "The pain is not much.  I will stay by him."

"You may stay by him, old friend," I told him, "but if you love my father, you will stay by him standing."

Cosimo gave a sound that might equally have been a laugh or a sob.  Gently he put down my father's hand, then with effort that was agonizing to see, he took up his staff and slowly climbed to his feet.  One of the guards started toward him, but the seneschal waved away the young Man's offered help.

"Is there anything you can tell us, Pelendur?" I asked the Healer.  "Can you tell anything from examining him?"

"Very little, My Lord," Master Pelendur said bitterly, looking angered with himself for having to make that answer.  "We may know better when he awakens – though I would recommend that he be given a second quaff of the sleeping draught the moment he begins to awake.  The Valar know that he can use the sleep, and this may be the only way he will allow himself to have it."

I set my father's hand down upon his chest, then I stared in bewilderment at something gleaming at his wrist, where the long, wide sleeve of his velvet robe was pulled aside.

I reached down to touch it, and still could not believe the evidence of my hand or my eyes.  Swiftly then I unfastened and opened his collar.  Beneath his robes at his neck was the same tell-tale silver gleam – the gleam of a shirt of mail.

"Why is he armoured?" I demanded.  "He has not ridden from the City in days." 

I began to wonder if some delusion brought about by the _palantír_ had led him to so arm himself, but Cosimo answered in weary tones, "He has worn mail day in and day out, My Lord – for near to five years, now."

I looked, amazed, from my father's seneschal to his Healer and back again.  "What?" I asked helplessly.  "In the gods' names, why?"

Master Pelendur said, "He was concerned that his body might grow weak with age.  He sought to combat that fate by compelling himself to bear the weight of his armour, in his every waking hour and in his hours of sleep."

"When he sleeps, as well?" I protested.  "You knew of this, Master Pelendur, and you did not dissuade him from it?"

With acerbity the Healer asked, "May I make bold to inquire, My Lord, if you have ever attempted to dissuade your father from anything?"

"Aye," I admitted, with a faint and rueful smile.  "I have attempted it, on occasion, and I have got precisely nowhere."  Frowning then, I asked, "Would there be more harm than good in removing the armour from him now?"

"I think it would do nothing to help him," Pelendur replied.  "He has grown used to it now, in his sleeping mind as well as waking.  To remove it now might well distress him in his slumber, and it would of a certainty agitate him more than I would wish, to find himself stripped of his armour when he awakes."

My father's Healer got to his feet, and stood picking distractedly at the splintered gash where my sword had been lodged in the table.  "In all honesty, My Lord, I think it has done him little harm.  And it may have been a greater help to him than any number of medicines, that he believed he was taking some action to slow his body's decline."

I sighed and looked down to the Lord Steward once more.  I re-fastened his collar and straightened his sleeve.

"Father, Father," I murmured, shaking my head.  "You will kill yourself if you go on like this; you know that, don't you?"

Reluctantly I stood and stepped back from the cot.  I said, "Let us take him to his chamber in the King's House.  I have already warned the guard below to expect our coming.  The cot should do as well for moving him as a stretcher."

The two guards came forward, looking relieved to again have something useful to do.

Our procession down the Tower stairs was slow and dismal, all too evocative of marching in a funeral cortège.

_But it is not a funeral procession_, I fiercely reminded myself.  _It is not.  _

_Do not forget, yourself, the words you spoke to your father: that while we live, there is yet hope_.

I looked, as we passed through the Place of the Fountain on our way to the King's House, for the _palantír_, Pippin and Svip, but I saw no sign of them.  I could only hope they had followed Pippin's warnings that I had ignored, and that they were now on their way to the River with the seeing-stone safely wrapped away.

There was a haste and nervous urgency about the people of the King's House as the word of our arrival spread, but they gave way to no noisy lamentations.  Even with the Lord Steward unconscious they respected his distaste for untidy scenes, and they conducted themselves accordingly.

We had my father soon tucked in his bed.  I smiled bitterly as I wished that were all we might need to do. 

If only getting him safely tucked in, and sitting by him to keep the monsters of nightmare away, could be enough to drive all darkness from his mind.

_But nightmares_, I thought, _are not so easily fought_.

Pelendur, Cosimo and I sat silently about his bedside.  His quiet, somewhat hoarse breathing seemed the only sound in all of Middle Earth. 

For once, I found myself wishing that Mithrandir were here.  Mithrandir, or even Aragorn.

Even with their skills, I thought, there was likely little that those two could do for him if they were here.  But I wished they were here that I might ask them. 

I hated that I must sit there wondering what they might have achieved to aid him, if fate and my father's hatred had not driven them from hence.

Just over an hour into our vigil, we were joined by Pippin and Svip.

The two halflings sat down on the floor by my chair.  In whispers they reported to me that their mission was accomplished.  Svip had the _palantír_ buried in the Anduin, near the Harlond, in a spot that he believed should be safe from any chance disturbance.

There was no nervousness or evasion in their faces as they spoke.  That alone was enough to assure me that they spoke the truth.

I had to smile a little as I pictured the Dark Lord's baffled rage, as he found that the _Palantír_ of Minas Anor now showed him only the darkness of the River's mud. 

A little above three hours had passed since our confrontation in the Tower, when my father began to stir.  His brow furrowed, and he spoke in his sleep – faint, murmured words that for the most part I could not hear.  Several times I heard him say "Gondor", several times "Mordor", and once, I thought I heard "Boromir."

"My Lord," said Master Pelendur.  "Have I your permission to give him another draught?"

"Yes," I said.  "But I think, only this one.  You said that until he awakens we cannot learn any more of his condition, or of what we might do to aid him.  I would not have us wait for that knowledge longer than we must."

 I held him up from the pillow while the Healer urged him to drink.  The task was easily accomplished – far more easily than it would have been were my father truly awake – and his sleep again grew quiet and still.

I told myself only to sit there and watch him, not to speculate on what might follow when he awoke.  But the thoughts kept creeping through my defences.

I was sorely tempted to hope we might already have done all that we would need to do for him.

Perhaps removing the _palantír_ from about him was all that would be needed.  Perhaps he would awaken fully himself, with only rest needed to complete his full recovery.

_It is too high an expectation_, I told myself.  _You must not hope for it.  The Valar know that you will be disappointed_.

And yet … 

I thought of Svip's theory that he had expounded to me so eagerly: the theory that my father's actions here, and my own at Amon Hen, had one and the same cause.

Svip was right, when he said that the Dark Lord's influence was guiding my father's acts.  Had he been right as well, to compare it with Amon Hen?

The agent might not be the same, if the _palantír_ moved in the one case and the Ring moved in the other.  But could not the underlying cause, the source, have been the same?

I still told myself it was the coward's road, to assign my actions at Amon Hen to any cause beyond myself.

But again I heard Svip's question: _Do you want so much to believe the Ring couldn't control you, you'd rather believe you'd murder Frodo and your father would murder eighty of Gondor's Men?_

My heart lurched with hope as I thought, _If it is the same, then there is a chance – a chance that Father will awaken restored to himself, and whole_.

_It is not the same_, I thought fiercely.

_But if it is_?

As I thought of it, I felt the grass and leaves of Amon Hen beneath my hands.  I felt my tears flowing bitter and hot upon my face.

I felt the horror, the shame, the agonizing grief that had come upon me then.  I felt as well my amazement and disbelief, as I asked myself how we had come to this. 

_How did my love for my country lead me to attempt so base a deed_?

My anguished cries sounded again in my mind.

_What have I said?  What have I done?  Frodo!  Come back!  A madness took me, but it has passed.  Come back!_

_A madness took me, but it has passed._

I stared at my father's face, and I pleaded, _So let it pass from him.  _

_I care not whether it was true for me, or if it was not.  Let it be true for him_.

There was a quiet rustling as Pippin shifted restlessly upon the floor.  I looked down and smiled at him, then at Svip sitting at my other side.  Both of them smiled back at me.

Holding my father's hand, I watched him and prayed that his sleep might hold no dreams.

The day dwindled into night.  The candlelight about the room gave a warmth of life to my father's face that it did not possess on its own.

An urgent knocking at the chamber's outer door startled all of us.  Pippin, still fulfilling his duties as esquire, leapt to his feet and ran to answer the door.

He reappeared a moment later, face solemn and eyes very wide.

"Boromir," he whispered, "Marshal Elfhelm and one of his Riders are here to see you.  The Rider brought a message from the patrol."

_All the gods_, I wondered, _what now?_

I rose and told Pelendur and Cosimo that I would return as soon as possible.  Then I walked into the outer room, with Svip hurrying at my side.

The Rohirrim stood near the door, with expressions as grim as all of those we seemed fated to see that night.  The young Rider was dusty, windblown and spattered with mud.  He and Marshal Elfhelm bowed to me, the Marshal saying quietly, "We are sorry to intrude upon you, Lord Boromir.  Is it true what Men are saying about the Citadel, that the Lord Steward has been taken ill?"

"It is true," I said.  "He is sleeping now, and we cannot learn more of his condition until he awakes.  But I believe it is safe to say that I must command in his stead for some little while to come."  I glanced to the table and chairs along the wall.  "Let us sit, gentlemen; and you will tell me, Marshal, what has dragged you from your bed."  

As the Rohirrim followed me to the table, with Svip and Pippin timidly trailing behind, Marshal Elfhelm said, "All the Men of Rohan will pray for the Steward's speedy recovery."

"I thank you."  I sat and the others followed suit, with the two halflings again sitting on the floor by my chair. "Now, what is it that has brought you?"

"My Lord," the Marshal answered, "Brego here has ridden from Emyn Arnen.  The watchtower is attacked by a force of Orcs out of the mountains.  We are not certain as to their numbers; six hundred is the estimate by the tower's garrison, but they acknowledge there could well be more that they have not seen.  Our patrol in the area, of two hundred and twenty Men, rode to the watchtower's defence.  A few of our Men, the best archers among them, have joined the garrison in the tower, but the majority have formed their line of battle around the tower's foot.  My Lord, all of our day shift patrols are here in the barracks; I ask that you authorise the forming of a larger force, that we may make speed to Emyn Arnen and put the attackers to rout."

"Aye," I said, "so I will." 

I cursed in my thoughts that this attack should come now, when my love and duty as a son should have kept me by my father's side.  But such a choice would seem to my father neither love nor duty, but the foolery of a milksop.  He would tell me in no uncertain terms that I was Captain-General of Gondor, not a nursemaid.

I looked down to my halfling friends, and said, "Pippin, listen carefully to all that we say here, that you may give my father a full report of it when he awakes." 

Pippin nodded in determined eagerness.

The chance, I feared, was all too slim that my father would be in any state to demand such a report at his awaking. 

But perhaps, if we hoped for that chance and prepared for it, we could cause it to become true.

Swiftly we formed our plan.  A force of eight hundreds of those who had been off-duty would set forth from Minas Tirith as soon as Men and horses could be made ready.  They would advance with all practicable speed to the relief of Emyn Arnen, by way of the Harlond where the Merchant Adventurers' new flagship would serve as a most luxurious of ferry boats. 

Those eight hundreds would leave just over seven hundreds yet should we come under attack in some other quarter.  The seven hundreds could ride in defence of the City or any other point within the Pelennor, or between Emyn Arnen and Morgulduin across the Great River.

We planned as well, when the other night patrols came in from their rounds, to reorganize the patrols into a smaller number, each formed of greater numbers of Men.  It would mean that each stretch of territory must be seen less frequently during each day.  But we thought it worth giving up on some frequency, to create forces that should have a better chance of holding their own against any enemy troops they might encounter.

This night's force of eight hundreds would ride under Marshal Elfhelm's command.  Grudgingly I accepted that I could not join the battle with them.

The nearest edge of Emyn Arnen is nigh on ten miles from the River, and the watch tower itself is closer to fifteen.  For once I had the sense to admit that this was farther from Anduin's shores than I could go – an admission that brought an unnecessarily loud sigh of relief from Svip.

We left the Lord Steward under the watchful care of Pelendur, Cosimo and Pippin.  The two Rohirrim hastened ahead to the barracks on the Third Level, to set about making ready their force's departure.  I spent a few moments longer in consulation with Master Pelendur and the guards on duty at the door to my father's chambers. 

I instructed the guards that during my absence, Master Pelendur's word was to count as my own, and it was to outweigh any command they might receive from the Lord Steward.  The Steward, I told them, could well be delirious when he awoke.  Their loyalty to him and to our House required that they abide by Pelendur's commands, not by those of our Lord.

I felt like a traitor to be speaking such words.  But the guards showed no sign of any distrust or fears, only concern for my Lord father's health. 

Sternly I told myself to silence my qualms.  It was no treachery to admit that my father might not yet be fit again for command, hours only since the _palantír_ had been pried from his hand.

When Svip and I reached the Third Level, the flurry of preparation was already afoot in the barracks and adjacent stables.  We met Marshal Elfhelm in the stables' courtyard, where he stood in consultation with Húrin Keeper of the Keys.  We were discussing the terrain about Emyn Arnen and Ephel Dúath, and the most likely places where Orc troops might choose to conceal themselves, when of a sudden the Rohirrim's expression grew dour and near to panic.  He glanced about him for an instant as though seeking some place to hide.

"My Lord Boromir," he said, "I must beg of you your authority and support, as my shield in this next encounter."

I followed the direction of his gaze, and saw the Lady Éowyn, armoured as usual, striding toward us from the courtyard gate.  Merry hastened at her heels.

"You have both, Marshal," I answered him.  "Courage."

The shieldmaiden halted before us, raking Elfhelm with her angered and defiant glare.  "My Lord Marshal," she said, "I must protest that no one was sent to summon me when these preparations began."

"I apologise that you were not notified, My Lady," Elfhelm grimly replied.  "It is my fault for not remembering that you would wish to be kept informed.  But you must know that you will not ride with our troops this night."

"I do not know it," she declared.  "When the Men of my patrol are riding forth, why should not I ride with the rest?"

"You are injured, Éowyn Daughter of Éomund," the unhappy Marshal stated flatly.

"My injury does not inconvenience me," she said.  "My place is with my patrol."

"With respect, Lady Éowyn," I cut in, "your place is here.  If you wish to be treated as any other soldier, then you must accept the rules by which all other soldiers must live.  It is your duty to obey orders, and not to risk yourself and your comrades by going into battle with a wound that must impede your efficiency.  You will remain in the City.  That is an order.  Have I made myself clear?"

She gazed at me proudly, eyes flashing fire as she answered me, "You have, My Lord.  I ask your pardon for wasting your time." 

"My Lord," Marshal Elfhelm said, "there is a command for which Lady Éowyn will be well-suited, and that she can undertake here.  Let the Daughter of Éomund take charge of the re-division of our patrols into larger forces, and determining with the commanders our revised patrol-routes.  Does this meet with your approval?"

"It does," I said.  "I can think of none better suited to the command."

Lady Éowyn cast me an angry frown, as though she suspected me of indulging in insincere flattery.  But she turned to the task at hand with no accusation or complaint.  The Marshal, the lady and Húrin of the Keys conferred for the next few minutes upon the troops' divisions.  Meantime I caught a glance from Merry, standing respectfully behind the Lady of Rohan.  With a nervous but heartfelt smile he looked up at me.  In the torchlight of the courtyard I was fairly certain that I saw him mouth the words, "Thank you."

Svip and I rode with Marshal Elfhelm's force to the Harlond, and accompanied them on the Merchant Adventurers' corsair ferry boat.  When all of the troops were across, we rode for two miles more by the Marshal's side, continuing our discussion on the topography and its potential uses by the enemy.

As we rode on, my horse-shaped friend took to glancing over his shoulder with increasing frequency, trying to cast me warning and disapproving looks.  At last he could restrain himself no longer, and he hissed to me, "You know you can't go with them."

"I know," I conceded.  "We'll turn around soon."

He muttered, "We'd better."

So as the Men of Rohan rode through the inky shadows of the woods, the darkness barely pierced by the stars and the sliver of the new moon, I at last bowed to the inevitable and to Svip's advice.  I clasped hands with the Marshal, wished him speed and fine hunting, and the shapeshifter and I turned our path again toward the Great River.

The hushed sounds of the Rohirrim's passage dwindled behind us, and my thoughts turned again to the Lord my father.

It was three hours now, and past, since Master Pelendur had given him the second sleeping draught. 

When we returned to the City, would we find my father awake? 

And if he woke, what would be his state of mind?

So I asked myself, again and again, as we rode.  But I feared to think of the possible answers.

We came to Anduin's shore, where I dismounted from Svip and he changed back into his own form.  As Svip crouched to run his hands through the River water, I wished we could take the time for even a short swim.  Angrily, however, I pushed that wish aside. 

_You are only seeking delay_, I sneered in my thoughts.  _You are only hunting some means of avoiding whatever waits in your father's chambers._

There was no need to call upon the former pirate ship to ferry only Svip and me.  Wiglaf Son of Herdred, the usual ferryman of Waterfront, set out from the quay on sight of us.  His boat was restored to him and repaired from its service as an improvised cart in the day that led to the siege of the City.

As he pulled near the shore, the boatman called out to me, "Hail, My Lord.  Your Lord father has joined the Rohirrim in safety, then?"

I thought, _I must have misheard him_.  I called back to him, "What?"

"Your Lord father.  He said that he meant to catch up with the Rohirrim, to join in their expedition.  He questioned me on the route they had followed.  Did you not meet with him, My Lord?"

Wiglaf reached the bank and jumped ashore, staring in startled dismay at the expression on my face.

"You are mistaken," I insisted.  "My father is in the City."

The ferryman swallowed unhappily and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, My Lord.  I ferried the Lord Steward across here myself, with his horse and the halfling his esquire.  They rode into the woods, there," he went on, pointing behind me, "not fifteen minutes past."


	21. Chapter TwentyOne: The Steward's Battle

Dear All: Well, I did manage it in under two months anyway, this time! And I am very curious to see what everyone will think of this chapter. The next one should follow relatively shortly, I hope. So, with a deep breath and with much knocking on wood, here is Chapter Twenty-One!

Chapter Twenty-One: The Steward's Battle

Svip and the ferryman both stared at me in alarm. As my heart sank, I said, "My father did not join the Rohirrim; not while I was with them. Svip," I went on urgently, my thoughts racing to catch up with this new circumstance, "see if you can pick up their scent; learn which way they went."

Svip nodded, bounded over to Wiglaf's boat and hopped inside it. While he was sniffing around the inside of the boat, I asked the ferryman, "What more can you tell me of them? Do you remember anything else the Steward said? How were they equipped?"

Wiglaf Son of Herdred answered, "Equipped as though for campaigning, My Lord, or for a journey. The Lord Steward had shield and bow strapped to his saddle, and he himself was armoured and wore his sword. The halfling also was armoured as one of the Citadel Guard, but I did not see that he wore any weapons."

I nodded, watching distractedly as Svip scurried about the ferryboat. I asked, "Was there any sign that the halfling might have been under duress – that the Lord Steward was compelling his attendance by force?"

The boatman's eyes opened wide. He stared a moment in stupefaction, then he succeeded in collecting himself. "I – I cannot say, My Lord. I suppose that it is possible. The halfling did stand close to the Steward, I recall, and I believe that the halfling looked nervous, but I did not think anything of it. It is possible that our Lord might have held a weapon on him. But that is speculation only, My Lord; I truly cannot say."

Svip hopped out of the boat again and commenced making his way inland, scuttling along with his nose close to the ground like a nightmarishly misshapen bloodhound.

"Don't go too far without me, Svip," I called out to him.

"I won't," he called in answer, without looking back. A moment later he was vanishing in the shadows, as the light that reached across the River from Waterfront dwindled at the edge of the trees.

I commanded, "Wiglaf, go at once to the Harlond and fetch to me the Commander of the Guard. Make haste."

"Aye, My Lord." He turned and shoved his boat free of the shore, leaping aboard and setting to with the oars in what seemed all one motion.

I turned to squint into the dark, where Svip had vanished.

_Valar_, I asked myself, _what can this mean_?

How in blazes had my father made it past those who watched over him, to set out after the Rohirrim – or on whatever other mission might have brought him here?

It did not bode well for Masters Cosimo and Pelendur, or for the guards whom I had ordered to obey Pelendur's orders above those of the Lord Steward.

Pippin had heard our plans for reinforcing the Emyn Arnen watchtower. It was possible, I told myself, that he had told the Steward of them, and that my father indeed wished to join the Rohirrim in their expedition, perhaps to make some amends for the scene in his Tower chamber.

It was possible, but it was not likely. Far more likely, I thought in bitter dread, was the chance that he had set forth on some other quest entirely – a quest perhaps not his own, but imposed upon him by the suggestions of the Dark Lord himself.

The time seemed unending before Svip came loping into view, to scramble down the riverbank and draw to a halt at my side.

"I've got their track," he reported eagerly. "They're heading that way," he added, pointing east and north.

"Do you think you can follow their track?"

"Yes," he said, "of course."

"Good. We will wait to consult with the Commander of the Guard, then you and I will set forth after them."

I suppose it was scarce ten minutes from when the ferryman set out, to when he and the Guard Commander returned. But they were not ten minutes that I should care to wait through again.

"Lieutenant," I began at once, as the guardsman rushed ashore and saluted me, "have you horses enough at the Harlond stables to mount a search and rescue party?"

"No, My Lord," he said, with a look of dismay. "We have two only; the rest were requisitioned for the patrols."

"I feared as much. Then use one of those two and send a messenger to Lord Húrin, in the City. Give him my order to assemble a company as swiftly as may be, and send them forth to recover the Lord Denethor. He has headed northeast, through the trees here; Svip may be able to give you more precise directions for a little way." I added, as a thought occurred to me that I did not like in the slightest, "It may be that he is headed for Morgulduin. He may make his way toward Minas Morgul; or north, toward the Morannon."

The Lieutenant gaped his astonishment. I hastened on, "The Lord Steward is ill, and may be delirious. I believe it is in this delirium that he has set forth. His delirium may tell him that he must take the fight to the Dark Lord himself, and beard him in his lair. I do not need to tell you that we must catch up with our Lord and bring him home as soon as possible."

"Yes, My Lord!" the guardsman agreed fervently.

I yanked my signet ring from my finger and thrust it into the Lieutenant's hand. "You will give this to Lord Húrin, that he may know these orders indeed come from me. Tell him also to check the Lord Steward's rooms in the King's House, and seek out his guards, his seneschal and Master Pelendur the Healer. I fear some evil has befallen them, or they would not have allowed the Steward thus to set forth. You understand your orders?"

"Aye, My Lord." The Lieutenant turned to Svip, asking, "Lord Svip, is there anything more you can tell us of the Lord Steward's route?"

As the water creature answered him, I took a swift drink from my canteen, then went to refill it from the River. Grimly recalling my other recent forays away from the banks of the Anduin, I asked Wiglaf the ferryman, "Have you a bottle or wineskin I might borrow? One that may be fastened to one's belt, if you have such about you."

"Well, I have, My Lord," he said with a shamefaced expression, going to collect a wicker-covered bottle from his boat. "The wine is none of the best, I'm afraid, sir."

"It does not matter; I am going to dump it out. Would you like a drink before I do so?"

"No, sir, that's all right, My Lord."

In haste then I poured out the wine and dunked the bottle in the River. As I hooked the boatman's bottle to my belt, the Lieutenant concluded his consultation with Svip.

"Are there any other orders, My Lord?" the guardsman asked.

"No; only to state again the pressing need for haste."

"I understand. You are setting out after the Lord Steward before the company joins you?"

"I am."

"Then – then the Valar's speed to you, sir, and all luck."

"I thank you."

The Lieutenant and Wiglaf hurried back to the boat, the ferryman adding his own, "Valar be with you, My Lord." With the first splash of the oars in the water, I turned to Svip.

"All right, Svip, let's go."

My friend surged up into horse form and I leapt onto his back. We headed into the blackness of the woods.

The forest has no great thickness on the east shore opposite the Harlond; nothing to match its growth in Ithilien to the north. But I thought we might near as well have been riding into Moria, for all the light that the stars and the thin strip of moon afforded to us. As Waterfront's lights diminished in the distance behind us, I had cause to thank the Valar for my shapeshifting comrade's night vision, as well as for his sense of smell. Svip plodded onward with his nose to the ground, often veering off to follow a new course through the trees as the scent of our quarry directed him.

I wondered at how my father was directing his course, without such a comrade as Svip to aid him. But there were breaks enough in the tree cover for the stars to show through in places; I supposed that he was taking them as his lodestone.

I did not wish to think of the other possibility, that some force outside himself was guiding him.

Our path for the first hour or so led roughly parallel to the River – little by little bearing east, if I judged rightly from the stars. But yet the River lay nearby at our left.

I told myself, _He cannot be that far ahead of us. We can catch up with him, if he keeps to this course; we will catch up with him before he goes too far from Anduin for me to follow._

_We will catch up with him. We must._

Svip asked me once, in a pause from sniffing out the trail, "Why do you think your father's doing this?"

"I don't know," I said. "But I'm afraid – I'm afraid he is trying to get to Mordor. The Dark Lord may be calling him there – or perhaps he believes, if he can gain entry to Mordor, he will have some chance to strike against the Dark Lord, himself. If he continues north and east, he will come to Morgul Vale. He could turn east there, on the old road to the Tower of the Moon. Or he could continue northward, on the Ithilien Road. That's the route that Faramir and the others will have taken. If he follows that road to its end, it will bring him to the Black Gate."

"Boromir?" Svip said, in a tense and warning voice. "You know we can't keep following him – if he gets too far from the River."

"I know," I said. "We have not gone that far yet."

_No, we have not_, my mind grimly answered me. _But we will_.

For our path had turned, in the past few minutes. We were veering further east, into the thicker reaches of the woods, leaving Anduin behind.

_We will catch him, _I told myself. _He is not that far ahead._

We plodded on. A faint breeze sent ghostly murmurings through the trees. There seemed no other sound in all the forest save for Svip's sniffing and the faint rustling of his hooves in the bracken and leaves.

Every few minutes now I took a small, judicious sip from my store of River water. But I could not hold off forever the tell-tale signs that I most dreaded.

Cold began to whisper in my blood, a mocking foretaste of the assault to come.

The first numbness set in, in my fingers. Even knowing the futility of it, I flexed my fingers and shook them, first one hand and then the other – as unobtrusively as I could, in the foolish hope that Svip would not notice that manoeuvre.

We rode on, and the cold seeped through me. We rode on, and the numbness spread, through my arms and my legs.

"Boromir? We're going to have to turn back soon."

"Not yet. He can't be far ahead of us."

Svip gave an angry-sounding snort, but went back to sniffing the trail.

I took to glancing over my shoulder with increasing frequency, and listening for any sound of the company in pursuit. But it was too soon, I knew; far too soon to expect any reinforcement. It would have taken an hour, at the least, from the time the messenger left the Harlond, for the company to be gathered, to set forth and to cross the River.

We were more like, I thought, to find Orcs upon our trail, than our reinforcements.

"Boromir," Svip said in sudden urgency. "You have to get off me."

I slid down from his back. I nearly wept in frustration, for I felt no hint of sensation when my feet hit the ground.

Svip shrank into his own form. I could barely see him, but I knew he had changed, from the direction of his voice. "I'm sorry," he said shakily. "I held on as long as I could. We're too far; I can't change shape any more."

"I know," I said. "It's all right; you did all that you could."

He whispered, "We should turn back now."

"Can you still scent their trail?"

Svip muttered something in his own language that was more than likely a curse. But he answered, "Yes. I still can."

"And how are you? You'll be all right, if we keep going?"

"I'll be all right," he said. "But you won't."

"We haven't gone ten miles," I argued. "I'm all right, for a while yet."

He snapped, "Will you admit it, when you're not?"

"Yes," I sighed. "Yes, all right, I will. Svip – how much chance do you think there is that our troops will find him, if we do not? How much chance that they will find him before Orcs find him instead?"

"All right," Svip said, with an angry sigh of his own. "But listen – if we go on now, then we _have _to turn back when I say so. When I say you can't go any farther, you have to turn back with me, no matter what."

"All right, Svip. Yes. All right."

"You swear it?"

"I swear it. Yes."

So we walked on, Svip reaching back to take hold of my hand.

Again I thought of Moria. I thought of the nine of us, picking our way single file through that impossible darkness.

This night seemed as dark to me, and this time we walked without even the will-o'-the-wisp gleam of the Wizard's staff.

And this time, I thought, I was a different Man from the Boromir who had taken that other journey in the dark.

This time as I walked in the darkness, it was without my old assuredness in myself.

No more could I be certain, as indeed I had been in Moria, that my body would accomplish all that I asked of it. I could not know that I had strength and endurance enough for myself and my comrades, enough to stand fast against whatever enemies we might face.

This time, I knew, my enemy was within myself. My strength and endurance were nothing against the cold spreading in my blood, against the numbness creeping in to steal all sensation from me. Or against the whispering promise in my mind, of the black unconsciousness that would reach out to claim me for its own.

I fought to think of something besides my body's slow betrayal. I began to play out in my mind the possible scenarios of what I would say to my father, and what he might say to me, when we met.

In my mind I formulated arguments, and pleaded with him. I shouted at him, and I begged him to come home.

And the cold grew. I took a drink, and I felt the canteen neither in my hand, nor against my lips. I thought that I felt the trickle of water in my throat, but I was not certain even of that.

Svip was speaking to me. I knew that, but I could not make out the words. I stopped and stared desperately at the stars, trying to gain enough focus to make them stop swimming in and out of their places in the sky.

"Boromir. You can't go on any more."

I nodded, or I thought that I did. Distantly I heard my despairing answer, "I know."

_You have to think now,_ I ordered myself. _You have to._

I glowered at the stars until they ceased their crazed wheeling above me. Then I said to Svip, "Does it hurt you, to go too far from the River? Or does it just stop you from changing shape? If I turn back now, can you still go on after my father?"

"It won't work," he said. "I don't think you'll make it back to the River alone."

"That doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. Anyway, if I did catch up with him, how would I convince him to come back? Maybe you could do that. I won't be able to. I _might _be able to bring Pippin back with me, if your father would let him go. But your father would still be out here, and you'd be somewhere dying in the woods, and we'd lose both of you!"

"We can't leave him out here. Damnation," I groaned, "I am such a fool. We should have waited. The troops will never find him without your help; we should have waited for them …"

"Then let's find them," Svip said eagerly. "We'll go back and meet them. Then some of them can take you back to the River, and I'll lead the rest of them on your father's trail. It will work, I know it will!"

I thought on that, and could think of no better option. "Yes," I murmured. "Yes, all right …"

Ahead of us sounded faintly the neighing of a horse.

Hope and triumph jolted into me, seeming to sharpen my thoughts. I hissed, "Svip, come on!" and started forward. I felt none of it, but I must have been forcing my way through brambles or smaller trees. I heard them rustle and snap as I tore through them, and as they tore at me.

"Wait! Stop!" Svip cried out helplessly, as he rushed into the brambles after me.

We plunged through to a clearing. The vista of stars spread above us. Their faint light slowly revealed to my eyes a dark shape ahead of me – a shape which could be that of a Man on horseback. The starlight seemed to catch upon a glint of silver, that might be the blazon of the White Tree, on my father's chest.

The horse neighed again at our noisy arrival. The shadowed figure spoke in my father's voice, cold and sneering, "You are clumsy trackers, even for Orcs. We have heard you ploughing through the trees like _mûmakil_, this league and more past."

"We are no Orcs, Father," I answered wearily. "It is Boromir, and Svip."

"Boromir!" another voice, Pippin's, cried out.

"Are you all right, Pippin?" I called to him.

"Yes," the Hobbit called back. I thought I heard more than a little fear in his voice.

"Yes, I'm all right, I'm fine."

My father spoke again. His voice was softer now, but no less cold.

"You have had a wasted journey," he said, "if you seek to make us return. Or do you wish to join in our venture? If that is so, then you are welcome."

"I could answer that better, sir," I said, "if I knew where you are going."

"Where else would we go?" he demanded haughtily. "We go to Mordor."

I had expected it, but still my heart ached on hearing it. "May I ask why you are going there, My Lord?"

He said, "We go in the hope of succeeding where you failed. We go to retrieve the Enemy's weapon, and bring it to Minas Tirith. Or what is more likely, to give up our lives in the attempt."

I thought, _I should have expected this_. But I had not.

The starlit clearing wavered and danced before my eyes, like a scene viewed through water. I put a hand to my forehead, trying to still the whirling of my sight and my mind. Though I did not know why I bothered, for I could not feel my hand on my forehead, and only my blurred vision told me that it was there.

"Sir," I called to my father, "My Lord, listen to me. You are not well. You will not wish to believe me, but I vow to you, it is true. You are ill, My Lord. You may think that you have chosen this venture, but I promise you, the will that guides it is not yours."

"Is it not?" the Lord Steward inquired disdainfully. "Then enlighten me, pray, upon whose will it is."

I said, "My Lord, it is Sauron's."

For a moment only silence answered. Then my father sneered, "What kind of a fool do you think me? Do you believe me so witless in my dotage that I do not know my own mind?"

"I beg of you, only listen to me. We found you with the _palantir_. Can you remember that, sir? You have been using the _palantir_, and Father, the Dark Lord also has one of the _palantíri _in his grasp. Is it not at least possible that these thoughts you believe to be yours are instead suggestions from the Enemy? Then the path you believe could save Gondor may lead instead to its ruin."

The Steward answered in biting tones, "Your precious Lord Aragorn also has gazed into a stone of seeing. And he, so he tells us, has bound it to his will. Do you believe that a mountebank of a Ranger has power to wrench a _palantir_ from the Dark Lord's control, but the Steward of Gondor has not?"

I sighed. "My Lord, I do not know if Aragorn has bound it to his will, or if he has not. I am not by him to witness his actions. But I have witnessed yours. I know that when you fought me in your Tower chamber, you did not do so of your own will. I know it is not your will that has brought us here. It is the Dark Lord who decreed this quest for you, My Lord. Not you."

My father gave a short, scornful laugh. He said, "Any other Man but you would suffer for speaking those words. You, I can forgive. But I am sorry to see you so deluded a fool."

"When I was deluded, sir," I snapped back, "I thought as you think now. I thought that the Ring offered us a chance of salvation. I thought so, and the Dark Lord used that thought. Then as now, My Lord, that thought served only him. And nothing but ruin came from it."

In the faint light, I thought I saw the Steward shake his head. He said quietly, "I am sorry you do not have more faith in yourself. If you believed more fully in your actions, then they might have succeeded. And the Ring might be in Minas Tirith now."

"Then, My Lord," I answered, "the Dark Lord might be in Minas Tirith too." My vision blanked out for a moment, utter blackness taking the place of the stars' faint sheen of light. I told myself I had to say everything I could, before my consciousness went the way of my sight.

I hastened on, "Father, listen to me. You have told me often enough that I do not think things through; that I act upon the dictates of my heart, not my mind. This time, sir, I say that you have thought things through no more than I. In our desperation for our country, we have forsaken logic and reason. The Steward of Gondor is as guilty of this as is his son."

My vision came hazily back to me, as my father demanded, "And will you tell me in what particulars you claim my logic has failed?"

"The Ring. You think that in our hands, it might bring a chance to save Gondor. So did I think, as well. But My Lord, why should this be so? When the Dark Lord forged this Ring that would rule all others, why should he have created it to serve any other master but himself? How has it served any master but him? Do you know of any, sir; in all the history you have read and heard of it, can you point to any such case? Did it serve Isildur? Or the creature Gollum? Did it serve them, or did it not rather use them up and cast them aside? Sir, reason and logic will tell us that the Ring serves only the will of the Dark Lord. How is it any but his will that the Steward of Gondor should ride without army or guard, into the land of the Enemy? He seeks to rob us of our Steward, My Lord, even as he robbed us of eighty of our fighting Men. It is a trap, Father! He has set the trap in your mind; he has used your love for Gondor to steal you from us!"

Blackness again slammed into me. I saw nothing and I felt nothing. I wondered how long it would be before I heard nothing as well.

My father's voice came through clearly to me, "You are distraught, Boromir. As often as I've told you not to act without logic, I have told you not to waste emotion on what is mere speculation. You are speculating now. You do not know that the Ring will serve only the Dark Lord."

"Sir, you do not know that it will serve you."

"No, I do not. But I choose to take the chance – while any chance yet remains to us."

"Very well," I said in desperation, "very well, you may have chosen this. But has Pippin chosen it? Must you cast his life aside as you cast aside your own?"

My father answered, "It is his cause as well as ours. It is his world as well as ours, for which we fight."

"Yes, sir, it is his cause. But must it be his death, as well?"

Pippin spoke up shakily, "I don't mind so much, really. I'd like the chance to see Frodo and Sam again. And maybe help them get out of Mordor, if I can."

I asked him, "Do you want to destroy their quest, too? Do you want to help my father take the Ring, and make all their struggles be for nothing?"

It was my father instead of Pippin who answered. "My esquire," he said in weary tones, "my son is correct in this, at the least. You have served well, but I would not have you follow the road that is ahead of me. Go now; I release you from my service. I hope I may yet turn back the tide that is upon us. If I do not, then may you die in what way seems best to you, Peregrin Son of Paladin, and with whom you will. Farewell."

Pippin's voice came now from nearer the ground, and I knew my father must have lifted him down from the horse. The Hobbit exclaimed in protest, "I will not say farewell, My Lord! I do not wish to be released from my word or your service!"

I heard affection in my father's voice as he replied, "Then fight for my son. Stand by him and fight at his side, as you have done in the past. Thus you will fulfil with honour the oath that you gave to me."

"My Lord!" Pippin cried out. "My Lord, no, do not leave! Come back!"

No answer came from the Steward, and I had no doubt that he had turned his steed and once more set his course for Mordor.

I tried to step forward, though I do not know if my legs in fact obeyed me. I yelled, "Sir, no, do not do this! My Lord! Father! Come back!"

I heard startled and horrified cries both from Pippin and from Svip. I was not sure what they were shouting about, until I realised that their voices, both very near to me, came now from above me rather than below.

My vision swam back to me drunkenly. I saw the vast field of stars, spinning above me. And near at hand, peering down at me, were the shadowed faces of Pippin and Svip.

I tried to say something reassuring to them, but I do not think I managed to speak. My sight was fading again as rapidly as it had returned. Svip was urging now, "Here, come on, drink some, just a little, come on, it'll help," but I could not feel enough to know whether I had swallowed any water, or not.

Pippin was murmuring, "What are we going to do? What are we going to do?" Suddenly there came another voice near at hand: the voice of my father.

In a tone of fierce desperation, he demanded, "What is the matter with him? _What is the matter with him_? Tell me!"

And then I heard something that I thought I had never heard before: someone other than my uncle, my brother or myself, yelling at my father.

"What is the matter with him?" Svip repeated. "He's _told_ you what's the matter with him; he's told you over and over! Don't you listen to a word he says to you? He's too far from the River! He can't go more than ten miles; I don't know how far away we are, but it's too far, it's too far! We've got to get him back to the River. If we don't, he'll die! Are you listening to me? He'll die!"

I heard no answer for a moment. Then my father spoke again, in a distracted voice that was barely audible to me, "Try giving him more of the water."

Svip snapped bitterly, "We could give him all the water; it wouldn't be enough. We've got to get him back to the River. We've got to!"

"Boromir," my father said, "stay awake. Do you hear me? Damn it, boy, don't you dare fall asleep! Damnation, wake up and look at me!"

I managed to force out the words, as slurred as those of any drunkard, "I'm awake, sir. I just can't feel anything, that's all …"

"Svip," my father began, "could you change shape and carry him – ?"

"No," Svip shot back, "I can't! I'm too far from the River too!"

"Boromir, damn it," the Lord Steward muttered, "if you are faking this to make me come back with you …"

That struck me suddenly as hilarious beyond all jests. The thought hit me that that was precisely the strategy Svip had used, when first I attempted to leave his house and the Anduin.

I broke out laughing. In between faint, hysterical laughs, I tried to explain. "Just like you, Svip," I gasped. "Just like you …"

My father instructed one of our comrades, "Here, take my handkerchief; try rubbing some of the water on his face. It may help him to remain awake." I heard no other speech for some moments more, then there came another curt order from the Lord Denethor, "Help me."

I was not certain in what my father wanted help. I heard the others moving about me, and I heard the snorting breath of a horse.

My father's voice came again, quiet and calming and very near to me. "Boromir, help me in this if you can. Try to get your feet beneath you. See if you can stand. You will not fall; I have got hold of you."

Obediently I made the attempt, though I had no notion whether my legs moved at all in response to the commands I was hurling at them. After another few moments, my father said, "I am sorry, Boromir, we're going to have to lay you across the horse. It will not be very comfortable."

"It's all right, sir," I slurred out, "I can't feel anything anyway."

For a while then I heard harsh and laboured breathing, some muttered curses from my father and one as well from Pippin, who followed that immediately with "I'm sorry, sir!", and another few snorts from the horse. There was some rustling of clothing and clanking of armour and accoutrements, then my father asked, his voice somewhere above me, "You are all right there, Peregrin; Svip?"

"Yes," I heard Svip answer, and Pippin agreed hastily, "Yes, we're all right."

My father said, "Let us go, then." He added again to me, "I have got hold of you, Boromir. It will be all right."

I supposed that he must have reached behind him, to hold onto me by my belt. It was the only likely way I could think of for him to guide the horse and keep hold of me at the same time. We must have set forth, but I had only the faint creak of the horse's trappings and the occasional sound of its footfalls to tell me anything of our progress.

Svip had perhaps suggested to my father the technique of getting me talking to keep me awake. That, or the Steward had decided on the wisdom of such a strategy himself. He said now, "You have mentioned before, Boromir, your thoughts on the reconstruction of Osgiliath. Tell me. How would you wish to see our policies develop with regard to the Citadel of the Stars?"

It was effort indeed to maintain concentration and energy enough to answer him. But I spoke, though I know not how much sense I may or may not have made.

I spoke of my dream to one day rebuild the Dome of the Stars. I did not stop there, but spoke on, of rebuilding the other public buildings and the houses where enough yet stood intact that could be salvaged, and of tearing down those structures that were too badly damaged, and reusing their building stones. I spoke of restoring West Osgiliath's wall, as we were now rebuilding the wall of East Osgiliath. I spoke of paving anew the wide, fair streets of the old city, and of means by which we might encourage our citizens to make their homes in Gondor's ancient capital once more.

My father, it seemed to me, took genuine interest in my suggestion that some of Gimli's people might be willing to travel to our realm, to bring their expertise to our building projects. He discussed with me the best sources and supply routes for providing new building stone, and he suggested, in a contemplative tone, "Many of our people will have lost their homes in this latest fighting. Of course most of those are folk of the countryside; yet some houses in the City as well are lost or badly damaged. We might offer dwellings free of charge to any of our citizens who choose to make their home in Osgiliath. To many of the countryfolk that might have no appeal, yet some I think would be willing enough to begin their lives anew."

"Yes, sir," I said. "I think that many of them would."

My vision was slowly coming back, or at least a trace of it was. I saw occasional blurs that passed by me, darker than the general dark surroundings. Along with that hint of sight, there came to me more clearly an awareness of the situation in which I had placed my father and our companions.

I asked suddenly, "We are all on your horse, Father? Pippin and Svip, as well?"

"Yes," Peregrin Took piped up, "we're both here."

"The horse – " I began, "Svip, are you all right? The horse is not too distressed by you?"

"No, it's fine," Svip assured me. "It's Hrafn; he's one of the horses Lady Éowyn has been training. I think I don't worry him so much any more – well, or else we're too heavy for him to bother with being worried."

Bit by maddeningly slow bit, the sensations of my body's reality were starting to return to me.

The first thing I felt was the thudding of my heart. Gradually I became aware of the feeling of numbing cold, and of a dull ache in my head. It took a good deal longer for me to be able to feel that my head was in fact against the horse's hip, getting the occasional jostle as the over-loaded Hrafn plodded along.

Creeping stealthily in on me was the pins-and-needles stinging of my hands. I was not certain if I could feel my arms swinging by the horse's side, or if I only imagined it because I knew that they must be doing so.

When I grew certain that I could indeed feel my arms, numb and deadened though they were, I nerved myself to try an experiment.

Cautiously I attempted turning my head, to see if I could look up at my father.

It worked. The move was painfully slow, yet my head did manage to turn. I saw what I thought must be the Steward, and perhaps even a glimpse of Pippin or Svip beyond him: dark shapes that held steady in relation to me, against the ever-changing murky blurs of trees and sky.

I let my head slump down again, and contemplated my next move.

More than likely, I told myself, I was being over-ambitious. But I said nonetheless, "Sir? If we could stop for a moment, I think I might be able to sit up."

In the whirling fog that made up my senses, I was not certain if my father had in fact pulled Hrafn to a halt. But he commanded, "Wait; I will dismount and help you."

Slowly I felt my arms and head stop swinging. My father's voice came again, "Come, Svip, Master Peregrin; let us move you out of the way, first." Then I could vaguely feel a hand touch my shoulder. My father said quietly, "I am here."

It was still a significant challenge. With much awkward flailing, I got myself worked around to face in the right direction. My sight was not clear enough for me to actually see the saddle, but I had bumped into it while twisting myself around. So I grabbed hold of the saddle, and thus braced, I succeeded in dragging my leg over the horse's rump.

For a moment I thought this was as far as I would manage to get. Actually sitting up seemed more of a challenge than I could conquer. But gripping the back of the saddle, I shoved against it as I fought to push myself upward.

"There!" Pippin exclaimed, his voice seeming impossibly far away. "There, I knew you could do it!"

My father offered courteously, "May I help you up, Svip?" I thought that I might have felt the horse shift a bit, and perhaps I felt a faint and tentative touch on one of my arms. The Steward's voice went on, "Boromir, I am going to mount up; then you can lean against me. Svip is sitting behind you now. He will hold you from falling, until I can remount."

I thought it more likely by far that I would squish the little water creature, should I happen to fall backward. I kept a death grip on the saddle, grimly begging the Valar to help me remain upright.

I was not certain that my father was in fact in the saddle, until I realised that he'd reached back to pry my hands free from the saddle's edge. I could distantly feel him manoeuvring my arms around his waist. He ordered, "Hold onto me. You can lean on me if you need to."

There was no question that I needed to. We rode on, my head resting against my father's shoulder.

The solidity of his back gave me proof that I was still in the living world. I tried to hang on to that sensation, and to the assurance that I was alive. My thoughts kept drifting dizzily, lulled to the edges of sleep by the faintly-felt motions of the horse. Half dreaming, I imagined myself back in my earliest childhood. I had stayed up too late, trying to prove that I was big enough to keep the same hours as the adults. Now my father was giving me a piggy-back ride to my bed.

_Wake up,_ my mind whispered to me. _Boromir Son of Denethor, you have got to wake up._

I wished that my father would start speaking again, to help me stay awake. But he did not.

That in itself gave me a toehold on reality: disquiet and dread that served to sharpen my thoughts, as allies in the fight to keep oblivion at bay.

I asked myself what my father was thinking – and what he might do, when he succeeded in bringing me back to the River.

How much of a hold did the Enemy still have on him?

Had the obsession to pursue his mad Ring-quest been broken?

Or was it only thrust for a time to the background, to return as implacable as ever when he had answered the immediate need to rescue his son?

I wanted to ask him of the others whom I had left with him, Cosimo and Pelendur and the guards. But at the same time, I feared to ask.

_He has not hurt them,_ I told myself. _He has not._

_How can I be sure of that?_ my thoughts demanded. _How can I be certain? He would have killed me, there in the White Tower. If the Enemy's hold was upon him when he awoke, he may have killed them._

What would he do, when we reached the River? Would he simply leave me there, and turn again to set forth on his quest?

It had been no sham, the weakness in which I'd collapsed, that had brought my father back to me. There had been no falsehood in that. But I thought that I _would_ fake it if I had to. Perhaps by feigning greater weakness than I felt, I could keep my father by me, to return with me to the City.

I told myself, _I should not even have sat up. It was a mistake to give him any reassurance that I am not dying after all._

There was a breeze. Of a sudden I felt it again, as I had not felt it for hours. It caught at my hair and blew it against my face.

I wondered where we were. I could see nothing but blurred variations in the darkness, though I did not know if my sight itself were wholly to blame, or simply the blackness of the night.

Suddenly my father spoke, in a harsh, tense voice that called my thoughts back from speculations and fears.

He said, "Boromir. If you should return to the City alive and I do not – "

That put an end to my plan of feigning more weakness than I felt. Without taking any conscious decision to do so, I pulled away from him and remained sitting up on my own.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded of him scornfully. "I am the one who is keeling over, sir, not you."

The Steward ignored me. "If you return alive and I do not," he repeated, "I want you to tell your brother that I apologise."

Mind blank with surprise, I echoed, "Apologise? Apologise for what?"

He did not answer me, and I pressed on, "Apologise for what, sir? For sending his Men to their deaths? Or for everything?"

My father gave no answer.

Anger now had driven the last of the fog and dreaming from my mind. I snapped, "Oh, no you do not, sir. You will not get out of it that easily. If you wish to apologise to Faramir for something, you will have to do it yourself."

My father snapped back at me, "You are pushing it, son."

I was about to answer, but Svip's voice came in an urgent whisper, "Orcs. There are Orcs nearby. I can smell them."

For some moments, none of us spoke. I strained to hear any sound of pursuit in the woods about us. I heard only Hrafn's hoof-falls, and a quiet sliding sound that told me my father was checking that his sword was loose in its scabbard.

I did the same, though I grimly thought that I did not know why I was bothering. I could barely feel the sword-hilt in my hand. If things came to combat, I could only hope for the strength to wield my sword.

I asked Svip in a whisper, "Can you tell where they are?"

"I'm not sure," he whispered back. "Upwind of us, definitely. But there may be more of them that I can't smell."

There seemed, still, no sound in the woods, save for our own passage and the whispering of the breeze. Then I thought that I heard the crack of a twig, off to our left. A moment later I thought I heard another.

I told myself that I was jumping at shadows. But I fumblingly found the ferryman's bottle filled with River water and took a long swig.

The effort it took to re-fasten the bottle to my belt boded ill for my prospects in any combat.

_They may not attack_, I tried to hope. _If there are only a few of them, if we have stumbled across them by chance, perhaps they will keep their distance from us._

_There would not be_ that_ few of them,_ my mind answered. _They can see in the dark; they will see how few we are. The Orcs are not alive who would pass up so easy a prize as we must seem to be._

There was no chance, I thought, that the horse Hrafn could make a run for it, not burdened down as he was with the four of us. My father had the same thought. He said quietly, "I will dismount and keep them occupied, while the rest of you ride for the River."

"No you will not, sir," I told him. "Do not even think of it. It would be useless, in any case. Hrafn cannot make any speed with three of us on his back, any more than with four."

"You are in no state to fight," he said. "You will do as I tell you."

"No, I will not." I tried the same basic tactic as my father had, saying, "Pippin, Svip; the horse should make good speed with only the two of you riding him. My father and I will stay here, while you ride to the Harlond and summon help."

"Are you out of your mind?" Pippin protested, his voice holding equal parts fear and anger. "Do you think we're stupid enough to believe help would get to you in time?" I heard him take a deep breath, then he said, "I'm the esquire of the Steward. I'm not running anywhere."

"And I'm your bodyguard," Svip reminded me. "None of us is going to run – not unless the others run too."

"Fools, all three of you," hissed my father. "Stupid, bloody fools."

"There may not be very many of them," Pippin suggested, trying to sound hopeful.

"Aye," the Lord Steward rejoined, "and there may _be_ very many of them. And we are one old Man, one sick Man, and two halflings."

"We've faced worse odds before, My Lord," Pippin argued, gamely continuing the attempt.

"Yes," my father snapped. "When you faced worse odds before, my son got himself killed."

The first arrow whistled past us. I did not see it, but I heard it, whirring close by my head.

I heard a little yelp from Pippin, but I did not think that he'd been hit. My father hissed out his orders, "Keep your heads down. Keep as low as you can. Peregrin, Svip: see if you can unfasten my shield; use it to shelter yourselves."

Three more arrows followed in swift succession. Then there was a lull, a mocking silence as if to lure us into thinking that the arrows had been a dream.

I thought, _Only four archers among them._

Or, only four archers among them who were thus far in range.

My father urged Hrafn to whatever additional speed the unfortunate beast could muster. The arrows sang forth once more.

Svip hissed suddenly, "Maybe we're close enough to the River for me to change shape. Then Boromir can ride me, and Hrafn will make better time."

"Svip," I began, "if you think you're going to trick us into leaving you behind – "

"No, no," he protested. "Just wait while I try it. If it doesn't work, I'll get back on Hrafn, I promise."

By now Hrafn must assuredly have scented the Orcs. He whickered in alarm as my father pulled him to a halt.

But it was a testament to the skill of the Lady Éowyn's teaching, that he made no similar protest when the horse-shaped Svip appeared at his side – or as I saw it, when there appeared at his side a large, vaguely horse-shaped blur.

Pippin exclaimed under his breath, "Oh, well done!"

Near at my right hand, Svip was saying urgently, "Can you get onto me, Boromir? I'm right here."

In my near blindness, I reached for him. Numbly I realised that my father had grabbed hold of my hand and guided it to Svip's neck.

"Hurry!" Svip urged frantically. "You're doing fine, you've got hold of my mane; come on, _get on_!"

Arrows rained on us from the dark. By the sound, there were more of them this time than four. I heard a thud that must have been one of them ploughing into my father's shield.

Like a fish drowning in a fisherman's boat, I made a wild, flopping lunge, from one horse onto the other. I was still struggling to get my right leg over Svip's side, when the water creature cried out, "I've got him, _go_!"

We set out at what might have been something near to a run. Flopped down against Svip and clinging onto his mane, I managed to drag my leg to its proper place, though I probably kicked my shapeshifting friend quite a bit as I did so.

There was a shout behind us; a harsh, angry shout in the Orcish tongue. Above the noise of our progress, I heard the crashing of heavy bodies, tearing through the underbrush. I tried to judge how many of them there might be, but I could not tell.

"Sir!" I called to my father. "I sent for reinforcements from the City, when we started after you. They cannot be far from us now. There may be some of the patrols nearby, as well."

"There may be," he called back, "but I have no means of summoning them. I did not anticipate a situation where there would be any help to summon." He added in sharp, jibing tones, "I do not suppose that you have provided yourself with a new horn?"

"No, sir. Not yet."

Another Orcish shout sounded, followed by the twang of many bows. And it was followed as well by the scream of a wounded horse.

The sounds of Hrafn's hoofbeats faltered and slowed beside us. I cried out, "Sir?" at the same moment as Svip called, "My Lord?" and the Lord Steward shouted to us, "Do not stop! Keep going; Hrafn can keep pace with you."

I wondered if Hrafn were in agreement with my father on that. But a goodly portion of the blood of the _Mearas_ ran in the horse's veins. He had enough of the lineage of the steeds of Rohan that he would indeed strive to keep pace with us, for as long as his legs held beneath him.

The dark shapes of the trees blurred past me as we plunged on. I stared at them, trying to make the shapes resolve themselves in my sight. I looked up to see if I could catch any glimpse of the stars, anything on which to try and make my eyes focus. But there was nothing but murky haze. I bit my lip in anger at the thought that I might have to fight in this darkness, and as I thought of how little help I could be to my father and my friends.

More shouts came from behind us, shouts and whirring arrows. My right shoulder twinged in a hint of pain, like a wasp sting piercing through to my fogged senses.

Keeping myself low to Svip, I cautiously reached over to investigate. My numbed fingers closed around what had to be the shaft of an arrow, jutting out from my shoulder.

_Marvellous_, I thought. _Now I just have to hope that these Orcs do not use poisoned arrows._

Not that I would be able to tell, I told myself, if I _were_ dying from poison. My senses were drugged enough already; any poison was like to make little difference to me until I died of it.

Svip must have heard the arrow strike; that, or I was bleeding onto him. He asked me fearfully, "Boromir, are you hurt?"

Before I could answer him, there came another whinnying scream from the horse at our side. And this time there followed other sounds: a frightened yell from Pippin, a grunt and a curse from my father, and a great thud as Hrafn and his riders plummeted to the ground.

Svip wrenched himself to a halt. I yelled, "Father, Pippin, are you hurt?" while Svip shouted to them, "Come on, get onto me, _quick_!"

I heard the horse thrashing on the ground, and the shouts of our pursuers, seemingly right on top of us.

Something bumped against my left hand. My father yelled at me, "My bow and quiver; take them!"

I fumbled and grabbed hold of them. Pippin meanwhile was crying out frantically, "The shield's under the horse! I can't get it!"

My father answered, "It does not matter!" He must have seized Pippin and swung him up behind Svip's neck, for suddenly the Hobbit was there, giving a startled gasp as he landed in front of me.

Svip yelled again, "_Come on_!"

It was a moment more before the Steward followed. I heard him draw his sword, and heard a faint yipping sound from Hrafn. The sword then was shoved back into its scabbard. There was another's instant's pause, then I felt Svip jolt as my father leapt onto him behind me.

Svip set off again. He voiced no complaint, but even in my benumbed state I could tell that our combined weight was more than he could bear in safety. His breath came loud and laboured, with occasional pained grunts as his hooves hit the ground more heavily than they should have. It was only a matter of time, I thought, before he lost his footing beneath our weight, and all four of us went flying.

"Svip," I called to him, "we are too heavy for you. We will have to stop and fight them."

My father commanded, "Veer left! There should be a hill close at hand; make for that. It will at least be vaguely defensible."

Svip obeyed, as I asked, "What hill is that, sir?"

"Ostoher's Hill – if we are where I believe us to be."

From that I had a better notion of where we must be. Ostoher's Hill lies roughly five miles from the River, about halfway between Osgiliath and the Harlond.

I speculated to myself on whether our people would someday re-name the hill after us. But that, of course, presupposed that they would learn we had met our deaths there.

With Orcs as our opponents, the chances were more than even that no trace of us would ever be found.

"Give me my bow," my father hissed. He pried bow and quiver from my hand. With a muttered apology to Svip as he braced the bow, he sat there stringing the bow while we jolted onward through the dark.

"Watch out," was his curt warning, as he nocked his first arrow.

I whispered, "Sorry, Pippin," and leaned further forward to get out of my father's way. The first shot sounded almost directly in my ear. More followed, again and again, with rapidity near worthy of an Elven archer.

I wondered if the Steward could see anything of his targets. If he could not, then there were enough of them behind us for even a blind shot to tell. A yowl of pain and rage followed one of the arrows' thuds.

Our foes, I believe, momentarily slowed their pursuit, at this first sign that their prey could fight back. I heard Orc voices raised in what sounded like argument. Then Svip pulled up to a dizzying halt, and shouted, "The Hill! Get off; I don't think I can carry you up it."

All of us piled off him. We commenced a mad, scrambling run up the hill, a hill that I could scarcely see. Pippin grabbed my left hand and Svip, back in his own form, seized hold of my right arm. The two of them herding me up the slope, we ploughed through a mass of bushes that must have been taller than my halfling friends. Pippin and I fell once, and Svip tugged at my arm until we stumbled to our feet again. I thought, as we ran, that it might not be so good an idea for Svip to be yanking on my arm that had an arrow in its shoulder. But in the circumstances, I told myself, that was probably the least of my worries.

My father's bow sang out behind us. I dragged my two companions to a stop, and yelled back to him, "Father! Come on!"

His bow sounded again, answered by a roaring Orcish cry. Running footsteps followed, and my father's shout, "I am right behind you! Keep going!"

I did not know that we had reached the top of the hill, until Svip urged, "Get down! There's a fallen tree right ahead of us; can you see it?"

"Not as such," I admitted, as I crouched down, "but I will take your word for it." I reached out and felt that there was indeed some kind of barrier, that could well be the trunk of a fallen tree. Svip tugged at my arm again, whispering directions, until we had scrambled around to place the tree between us and our enemy's last known position. I asked then, "Is my father here?"

"Yes, yes," the Lord Steward said impatiently, near at hand. "I am here."

"Sir," I told him, "I cannot see worth a damn."

He paused a moment, then said, "If we could provide some light, that might be of help. And it might serve as well for a signal beacon, if there is any aid to be called. Svip, Master _perian_," he went on, "take my tinder box; see if you can start something burning."

"Yes, My Lord!" Pippin exclaimed.

We heard the two halflings in whispered conference, their voices moving farther away from us. When it seemed that Pippin and Svip were likely out of hearing, my father said to me quietly, "You are wounded."

"I don't think it's bad, sir," I answered. "Truly."

"It is your sword arm."

"I don't think it really matters, sir. I can barely feel either arm."

He did not answer that. I thought I could feel him prodding around the wound, and I asked him, "What do you think, sir? Should the arrow stay in, or come out?"

The Steward said briskly, "I'll break off most of the shaft; the point should probably wait. He added, "If it had poison on it, I think it would have acted by now."

I heard the snap of the arrow shaft breaking, then I heard my father crawl closer to our fallen-tree bulwark. I asked, "Can you see the Orcs?"

"They don't seem to be following yet. There's some movement at the base of the hill. They are probably holding a council of war."

"Father – " I began, "sir, if there's any way we can, we have got to get Svip and Pippin out of this alive."

"We will," he said firmly, in a voice that seemed to admit of no doubts. "We will not allow them to die here."

Regretfully I thought to myself that those were words only, not reality. I wished I were still a child, to believe past all doubt that everything my father promised would come to pass.

Somewhere behind us sounded a cheerful crackle of flames, bearing with it the bright tang of burning wood. Closer at hand I heard running footfalls, and then Pippin's whispered report, "There was another dead tree. I think it's burning pretty well."

"Well done, my esquire," my father told him gravely.

Pippin added, in worried tones, "I hope it doesn't set the whole forest alight."

"If it does," the Lord Steward observed, "it will certainly make a noticeable beacon." He paused a moment, then went on, "You have no weapon, do you, Master Peregrin?"

"No … no, My Lord," Pippin said, sounding embarrassed.

I wondered if he had no weapon because my father had not permitted him to carry any, when or if the Steward had forced the Hobbit to accompany him out of the City. But if that were so, neither of them mentioned it. My father said, "Take my dagger. It will serve, at least, until you can claim a better weapon from a fallen foe."

Pippin answered, in his pert Hobbit tones as of old, "Their weapons will be too big for me to lift, My Lord, unless they are carrying their nail files with them!"

"Svip," I said, "you don't have a weapon either, do you?"

"I don't think I'll need one," he declared. "I can use my hooves. I'm better with them, anyway."

My father's plan for the fire, I thought, was starting to work. I could certainly see more than I had just moments before. All was blurred, still, but at least I could see the difference between some of the blurs. The ruddy gold light from the fire showed up the dark line of the fallen tree, the paler expanse of slope up which we had scrambled, and the blackness of the trees below.

I looked about me, and though I could not make out their features, I could see the three separate shapes of Pippin, Svip and my father.

Svip hissed suddenly, "They're moving. I can see some of them moving around to our left. There's some still in front of us, too. I can't see any moving to our right."

My father said, "If they have any sense at all, they'll attack from several sides at once. Boromir, how is your sight?"

"I think it will do, sir. I can see the three of you. I should be able to see them, when they are close enough to fight."

The Steward continued, "I'll handle those who come up this side. The rest of you, do what you can against those attempting to flank us. Peregrin, Svip: stay by Boromir; he will need your keen eyes to aid him."

"If – if you please, My Lord," Pippin put in timidly, "Svip can see in the dark, he'll be more help to Boromir than I would. I should like to stay with you. I'm your esquire, after all."

"So you are," was my father's quiet reply. "Very well. We shall fight that Men may tell our tale in days to come, Peregrin Son of Paladin."

"Pippin," I said, putting out my hand to him and wishing with all my heart that I had kept him safe, "I'm sorry, Pippin. I am sorry you have to be here."

"Don't be sorry," he insisted. Distantly I felt him grasping my hand. "Please, don't be."

Svip, beside me, reached out to Pippin, and the two of them clasped hands.

"Hurry," ordered my father. "Go around to the back of the hill; make haste."

Svip and I set out, keeping low to the ground. We skirted our way around the burning tree. To me it seemed a blurred column of light, as though one of the Valar had appeared among us, too bright and powerful to be clearly seen.

Svip guided me to some bushes, thick enough to hopefully camouflage me from our enemies' sight. He hissed, "Wait here. I'll try to see where they are."

Kneeling behind one of the bushes, I waited. From Wiglaf the ferryman's bottle I took one last swig of River water. With satisfaction, I noted that it was a little easier this time for me to re-fasten the bottle to my belt. Then, as soundlessly as I could, I drew my sword.

The water creature reappeared at my side. He reported in a whisper, "They're close. There's six of them, I think, coming up the hill a little bit to our left. Then there's another five, to the right of us a bit. The slope starts down just in front of us here, but it's pretty even; I don't think there should be much to make you trip on it. Do you think you'll be able to see them?"

"Yes," I told him, with perhaps a trifle more confidence than I felt. I asked, "You're going to change into horse form to fight?"

He whispered, "Yes."

I nodded. "Then I'll take the ones on the left, and you take those on the right."

"All right," Svip answered. "I'll tell you when we should attack."

As we waited in silence, it hit me again how very cold I felt: cold, and numb, and dizzy enough to be wandering in drunkenness or a fever. Impatiently I told myself, _All the better. If you're numb, then it shouldn't bother you a bit if you get any more wounds. I'll be very disappointed in you, if you don't keep right on fighting until you drop down dead._

I thought that I could hear them now: faint rustlings as they crawled up the hill, the occasional quickly-silenced clank of armour or weapons.

Then suddenly sound burst upon us from the other side of the hill: roaring Orcish yells, and the sharp twang of my father's bow.

The Orcs on our side of the hill must have been waiting for that attack as the signal to launch their own. I heard more clanking from them as they shifted from a crawl to a run, and Svip hissed out to me, "Now!"

A massive horse surged out of the bushes, rearing up and causing the astonished Orcs to pause in their charge. In that instant of their bewilderment, I leapt out from cover myself. To my relief, I could see my targets off to the left: a dark clump of standing figures partway down the hill. I ran at them, yelling at the top of my lungs, and swinging my sword in an arc as I neared them. I felt the drag on my sword as it connected with armour or flesh, although how many of them I might have wounded, I could not tell.

The shadowy form of an Orc lunged at me from my left. I managed to bring my sword around, catching his swordblade near the hilt of my own.

Instead of pressing their attack, several of the Orcs suddenly drew back a little, and I did not blame them. Hoofbeats thundered down on us as Svip charged, sounding as though he would run all of us down. He yelled out, "Gondor!", and as the Orcs recoiled from the yelling horse, I struck at them again. My sword, I was certain, lopped through the neck of one.

Other Orcs yelled to the right of us. Their battle cry, I thought, sounded more shaky than they must have wished, as they strove for courage to endure the assault of the unearthly horse.

Svip lunged at one of my Orcs and seized the creature's neck with his big horse teeth. He bit down, cutting off the Orc's terrified screams. Then he hurled the Orc away from him, yelled, "Gondor!" and charged again, toward the handful of Orcs to our right.

I yelled with him, shouting the battle-cry of my country as I swung at my horror-stricken Orcs.

I do not know that Orcs have much imagination, or that they are plagued over-much by superstitious fears. But these Orcs knew fear that night, in the form of the riderless horse that had charged at them, shouting in the speech of Men.

They were afraid, but it did not stop them from fighting, once they had recovered enough from that first shock.

Even in the light from the burning tree, I heard that fight much more than I saw or felt it. Sight did guide me in the struggle to catch their swords and axes on my own blade. But more, I fought from the cues of their harsh breaths and growls, the intake of breath just before they swung at me, the clanking of their armour as they lunged.

I heard screaming to my right, screaming and Svip's indomitable yell of "Gondor!" I smiled a little as I thought of the Orcs' shame, if they lived long enough to feel it: the shame that a band of Orc warriors should be mown down by one lone horse.

Other sounds clamoured about us. I heard the twanging of a bow and the whirr of arrows, very near to me, though I had not seen if it were one of my Orcs or of Svip's who had gone back to using his bow. Nor could I tell if any of the arrows hit me. A few times I thought that they might have, as I felt faint jolts through my body. But no pain reached me, and what might have been striking arrows could equally have been the reverberation of metal on metal, or the twinge as I stumbled on some unevenness in the ground.

From the other side of the hill, another voice joined Svip and me in shouting our battle-cry. The shout of "Gondor!" sounded over and over again in my father's voice.

I smiled, and I made myself shout louder, hoping that my father heard me even as I heard him.

The screams of Svip's Orcs had gone silent. Instead there came his hoofbeats, once more thundering closer toward us. There was a lone scream, followed by some crashing and thuds, and it struck me that I could not hear any longer the shots of the Orc archer.

But there were still two Orcs fighting me. One of them, near as big as a troll, ran at me now with a great roar of rage, bearing me down with the weight of his body rather than any other weapon. As I fell, with the Orc heavy upon me, I remember irrelevantly thinking, _Damn, that'll drive the arrow deeper in my shoulder; it will take some serious digging to get that out._

I could vaguely see the outline of an axe, that the Orc had raised to smash down into my skull. I grabbed his arm, trying to hold the axe away from me, and I twisted awkwardly to bring up my sword. I heard the familiar wet thudding sound as the sword drove up into his guts.

The Orc gave barely any other sound, just a faintly audible grunt. I heard other sounds around us: another scream, nearby, Svip's shout of "Gondor!" and in the distance, the battle-cry of my father. Then the Orc's huge body slammed down on me, taking from me all my breath and all light.

For a moment, I think, I lost consciousness. I remember thinking how quiet everything was. My eyes opened again to a scene of delirium or madness: in the dim, fiery light, the dark shape of my foe rose away from me, unmoving, as though he were a marionette raised up by strings too thin for me to see. I blinked, trying to understand what I saw, and suddenly the Orc marionette was tossed aside. Standing over me was a new shape, that I recognised as a horse – a horse that must have taken hold of the dead Orc with its jaws, and flung him away as a dog would fling a rat.

"Svip," I croaked out. I knew an instant's mad dread that he would not answer me, that it was not Svip at all but some ghost horse that had claimed the Orc's soul and now would capture mine, as well.

But the dark horse-shape vanished, and I was almost certain that I could feel Svip seizing my hand. I _was_ certain that I heard him, as he cried out in thin, frantic tones, "Boromir! Are you hurt?"

"I don't know," was my truthful reply. I felt no clear pain within my shroud of numbness and cold. I tried to see if any arrows were sticking in me, but my eyes would not focus enough to give me an answer.

I asked Svip, "The Orcs. Are there any of them left?"

He said, "I don't think so." I heard again taut desperation in his voice, bordering on hysteria. "None of them here are alive. And I can't hear any others. Boromir – I think something's happened."

"Happened?" I repeated. My limbs guided far more by memory than by what I actually felt, I struggled to get my legs beneath me and shove myself up from the ground. I managed a shaking crouch and had to pause, leaning dizzily upon the hillside until I gained a semblance of equilibrium.

Svip told me, "I can't hear your father, either."

I listened, and thought, _He is right._

The last I remembered, before falling with the corpse of my opponent above me, I had still heard my father's war-cry of "Gondor!" Now, it was silenced.

I told myself that if all the Orcs were slain, there was no need for the Steward still to be shouting his battle-cry. But as I listened, I heard something else.

Very faintly, like a distant brook, I could hear someone crying. The crying went on, and on, so constantly that I tried to tell myself I was imagining it. It was not crying at all, but the breeze, or indeed some rivulet, a tributary winding its way into mighty Anduin.

But there are no streams near Ostoher's Hill. And it was not the breeze. I knew what it was, regardless of the stories I might try to tell myself.

I started to scramble up the slope. Svip kept close by my side.

Again we made our way around the fiery tree, now starting to burn low. Despite Pippin's fears, it did not seem that the fire would spread. The recent rain, the dampness of the mould and the living sap of the trees about it, would confine the fire to its first home until it guttered out. As I ran stumblingly past the dead, burning tree, I thought that in one of its purposes the fire had failed. Our beacon would burn itself out, but no help had come, no rescue from the City had answered.

Svip called a warning too late as I tripped on the fallen tree behind which we had first sheltered. I crawled over the tree trunk and then was avalanching down the hill, half running and half falling.

The crying was somewhere near to us now. I knew that I was running through bushes, from the noise I made ploughing through them. I grabbed hold of one, and managed to slow my progress enough to drag myself to a halt. I stared, trying to force my eyes to make sense of the shapes before me.

Darker than the slope of the hillside, lying lower than the straggling bushes: I would have known that the shapes were those of corpses, even without the reek of blood hanging heavy in the air all about us.

But one of the shapes, at least, was not a corpse. The sobbing stopped. There sounded instead the voice of Peregrin Took, forlorn and desperate.

"Boromir!" he cried out. "Your father – your father."

"He is dead," I said, not moving from where I stood.

Pippin sobbed again, then tried to choke back the sound. I heard his quiet gasps as he fought to hold back the sobs and could not.

"Where are you?" I asked – foolishly, no doubt, for I could certainly have followed the sound of his sobbing to reach him. But I dreaded to walk forward blindly, and to fall over the body of my father.

"I can see them," Svip said quietly beside me. I felt the distant touch of his hand clasped around mine, and reluctantly I followed as he slowly started once more down the hill.

Pippin's crying had started again, a quiet and empty sound. We were very close to him, when Svip tugged on my arm, and said, "Here. We can sit down here." I obeyed. Svip, holding onto my right hand, guided it down to what my dulled senses and logic both told me was the body of a Man. I touched the Man's arm, then felt to his hand, in its thick leathern gauntlet. Wishing I could feel it more clearly, and wishing I could see him clearly but yet cravenly glad that I could not, I pulled off the gauntlet and closed my hand around his.

I might have been imagining it, but I thought I could feel that his hand was still warm. I clutched it more tightly, and felt the familiar shape of his signet ring, pressing against my skin.

"Pippin," I said, "are you hurt?"

"No … no," he murmured, gasping back the sobs once more. "One of them fell on me, a bit, but I managed to roll mostly out of the way, and … no. I'm not hurt."

Holding my father's hand, I asked Pippin, "Can you tell me what happened?"

The tears still thick in his voice, Pippin cried out, "He fought so well! He was fighting like – like you. He kept shooting at them, he shot ever so many, I think ten of them – at least seven. But one of the biggest of them, I think their leader, was shouting at the rest of them and I guess he ordered them to charge, even though your father was still shooting them down as they ran. And then too many of them got too close to him, and he threw down his bow and drew his sword, and he fought like you, shouting 'Gondor!'

"I was standing in back of him, and one of them ran at us from the side, and would have – would have axed me, but your father swung around and cut off his head. But there were so many of them, and they kept coming at him, and one of them was still shooting at him, even though he might have hit his own – his own soldiers."

Pippin gasped in a shaking breath, then raced on. "First an arrow hit him in the leg, and then another in his side, but they didn't seem to bother him and he kept on fighting. But they were so close about him, and they forced him down. And one of them was leaning down to stab him, and I … I stabbed the Orc, with your father's dagger, in its throat, and the Orc fell on me, but I – I mostly got out of the way.

"And then your father was on his feet again, and he was still fighting them, but the archer was still shooting, and another arrow hit him, in his leg again. And there were only two others of them left, and your father charged the archer and cut him down, while he was trying to fit another arrow to his bow. But there were still those two, and they ran after him, and he cut off the head of one of them, and he was still shouting 'Gondor!' But the other – swung at him while he was killing the other one, and the sword sliced along his neck and his chest, but he still stabbed that one, before the Orc could pull back, and – and then they both fell. He fell. But he killed all of them! He killed them all!"

Softly then, as the story ended, Pippin broke again into sobs.

"Not quite all of them, Pippin," I told him. "Not all. He would not begrudge you the one that you killed."

"But it was only one them! It was only one, and he killed so many. And I didn't save him."

"Pippin," I said, "Pippin, don't. Please don't."

Blindly I held out my hand to him. The Hobbit suddenly hurled himself at my chest, and was sobbing against me. I was almost certain that I felt his tears upon my neck.

"Boromir," he whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

With my left hand I patted Pippin's back. With my right, I was still holding my father's hand.

Svip spoke, his voice quiet but harsh with strain. "We have to leave," he said. "We can't stay. There may be more of them nearby."

Pippin's sobs had been slowly quieting. He whispered again, "I'm sorry," and pulled away from me.

Svip repeated fiercely, "_We have to leave_."

I sighed, knowing that it was true, but feeling too weary and too hopeless to move. I said, "We can't leave him here."

"No," Svip answered, sounding shocked. "No, we can't. I'll change shape and carry him – if you can get him up onto my back."

"Yes," I sighed. "Yes, all right."

Svip was perfectly correct on the need for haste. But I could not seem to make understanding of that urgency pierce through to my body or my mind.

I looked down to where the Lord Steward lay. I asked, "Are his eyes open?"

Svip whispered, "Yes." He also, I thought, sounded on the verge of tears. But so far as I knew, his people did not cry.

Staring down, I could not truly believe in the reality of this. I thought that I would not fully believe in it until I could see my father's body clearly, and my eyes told me that it was true.

A portion of my mind prayed that I would not live that long, so I might never have to see it and admit the truth.

I let go of my father's hand, carefully, as though he were still alive to feel it.

"Svip," I said. "Please – help me close his eyes." I could, I knew, have found his eyes to close them on my own. But I was afraid, afraid of the discourtesy of my numbed fingers fumbling blindly over his face.

Svip sharply drew in a breath. I waited for him to say something, but he did not.

Instead I felt the faint touch of him putting his hand over mine. He guided my hand until he brought it down upon my father's brow.

Svip whispered, "What do we have to do?"

I said, "We only need to close his eyes, for now. There will be more to do later – when we've brought him to the White City."

In the firelit dark, while Peregrin Took of the Shire wept quietly at my side, Svip of Anduin and I closed the eyes of Denethor Son of Ecthelion, Twenty-Sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor.

Svip drew his hand away, but I was not ready yet to relinquish that thin thread of contact.

Hesitantly I moved my hand, and let it rest for a moment on my father's cheek.

In wonder, I thought, _This must be the first time since I left infancy that I have touched my father's face._

It was the first time apart from that same evening, when I had struck him as we fought in the White Tower.

The thought came to me of how very strange it would feel, how very strange and very wrong, to go through the rest of my life never hearing my father's voice.

"Father," I whispered, "why must you do this to me?"

Svip said again, in his near-frantic tones, "Boromir. We have got to leave."

"I know," I said. "I know."

I hesitated a moment more. Then I leaned down and kissed my father's forehead.

I drew back from him and stood up. I stood there as I fought again for equilibrium, trying to convince my body that it had no immediate need to fall down.

The big, dark horse-shape of Svip reappeared. He stepped around the Steward's body to stand by it farther down the slope, that the height would be slightly less to which I must lift the body to set it over Svip's back.

"Pippin," Svip asked, "can you see me?"

"Yes," answered the Hobbit, "pretty well."

"Boromir may need your help – if he can't see well yet."

"I know," Pippin said firmly. "I'm here, Boromir."

It was a struggle, but then it was a struggle for me just to remain vertical and awake. I managed to lift my father's body, leaning it over my shoulder until I could get to my feet again and drape it over Svip's shoulders in turn. Perhaps as much of a challenge was my next task, to get onto Svip's back myself. I managed it after the requisite awkward flailing. When finally I was seated behind the body of my father, Pippin said, "I'm sorry, Svip, I think I'm going to have to climb up you." That indeed was what he did, grabbing hold of my hand and then clambering up the hip of our shapeshifting friend as though he were climbing a tree.

So we set out once more.

I would say that I remember little of that journey. But I remember the emotions of it, and that is more than enough.

I was holding onto Svip's mane, with my other hand upon my father's back. At some point I must have begun to sway, for I remember Pippin tightening his grasp around my waist and trying to steady me, probably more than once. More than once I remember him begging me to drink some River water, but I always told him that no, I did not need any, I was fine.

I knew that I was not fine. But I did not want the greater clarity of mind that drinking that water might bring.

I did not want my mind to clear, for then I would have to face all the things of which I did not want to think.

I would have to think of Cosimo and Pelendur – to fear whether they were even alive, until we reached the City and learned of their fate. And then if they did live, I would have to see their faces when they learned that my father was dead.

I would have to see the faces of our people; I would have to face their grief and to let them see my own, when we brought my father into the White City.

I would have to face the fact that I was the Steward of Gondor, that when the next audience was held in the Tower Hall, it would be I who held the White Rod of Office, not he.

_You cannot fear it_, I tried to tell myself. _You have known always that someday you must take your place in the Steward's Chair. You have known it and planned for it, and you cannot wish it otherwise._

But I did wish otherwise. I wished otherwise, for I would only be seated in that chair because my father was no longer there.

We were nearing the River. I felt it in a soft, wordless calling in my mind, as though a gentle voice were welcoming me home.

I thought, _I _wish_ that the River were my home. I wish that were as far as I will have to go. I wish that I could sink into its waters, and that I would never have to think of anything more_.

At some point I heard Pippin again start to cry. I remember hearing him say, "Hurry up, Svip, _please _hurry. I think he's going to fall."

I could hear the River, the deep and gentle rush of it as it strides between the Land of the Moon and the Land of the Sun.

I could hear it, and I thought that I could feel it, like fingers stroking across my face, bringing cooling out of fever, and rest out of pain.

My mind was swaying so, that I did not notice it when Svip stopped moving. But I do remember him saying to me, "Boromir. Boromir, we're here."

I slid down from Svip's back, landing on my feet with a jarring thud. Immediately my legs buckled beneath me, and for an instant I fell to my knees. Then I fell further, collapsing forward nervelessly until I lay in the water at last.

I felt the River water, as it eddied through my hair and lapped at my skin. I felt the sludgy soil against one side of my face, and I remember stretching out my hand as far as I could, as though begging Anduin to pull me deeper into its grasp, so I need never feel anything but the water, ever again.

And then it seemed that the River answered my plea.

There seemed, of a sudden, to be more water about me. It enveloped me, lifting my body up from the shore. I puzzled on it a moment, thinking, _But it is a river; it has no waves_. Then I ceased to think of it, for the sensation was too perfect to admit of any thought.

The Anduin lifted me, carrying me, it seemed, far into its current. I heard cries of horror, I supposed from Pippin and Svip, but I could not bring myself to listen to them. I felt the water all about me. It seemed to warm me from within, stealing away the bitter cold that had dwelt in my veins and my bones. I felt the peace and release from sorrow that it brought to me with its touch.

With a feeling of joy, I thought suddenly, _I will not have to face any of it, after all. I will not have to look upon my father's dead face. I will not have to sit in the Steward's Chair always feeling that the Chair is not mine, that the Lord my father should be sitting there, not I._

But that peace and that perfection did not last.

I remember the sensation that the water was setting me down again, with gentle care, like a motherly little girl setting down her favourite doll. I felt again something other than water against me: the ground, unforgiving and cold. I thought that perhaps I felt grass blades against my face and hands. I felt the water drifting away from me, and I wanted to cry out to it, to beg it not to leave me. But that was too much for me to speak, and I lay there, trying to focus only on the water, to feel all of it that I could before it left me alone. The water lapped around my legs, as though in one last caress. Then it ebbed away, and my consciousness ebbed with it.


	22. Chapter Twenty Two: The Steward's Homeco...

Hello to all! Well, a bit over two months, this time – not as long as _some_ of my breaks between chapters, anyway! I'll be interested (and nervous) to hear what people think of the events in this chapter – and I'll do my best to get the next chapter up here before too very long.

In this chapter the date March 27th is mentioned. My use of this date is based on the info on the Steward's Reckoning that I received from Lady Elwing's Lithe Days site back in the days when I was working on Chapter Eight. I am (still) not an expert on the issues of the various calendars of Middle Earth, but at any rate, the important point is this: this March 27th corresponds to what would be March 26th in Tolkien's chronology in Appendix B of LOTR.

With that in mind, on with the chapter! I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Steward's Homecoming

I awoke. For some moments I lay gazing at the morning light, a shaft of it shining palely across a plain, wood-panelled wall.

I ached, it seemed, in every inch of my body. With a feeling of weary resignation, I thought, _I suppose that means I am probably alive_.

A voice, Svip's, cried out from somewhere near to me, "He's awake!"

I raised my head in the attempt to see where Svip was. I saw not only Svip, but a room crammed to bursting with people. I blinked at the sight, although I did not feel that I had sufficient energy to be overly surprised.

Svip, Pippin and Merry were all seated cross-legged on the foot of the bed in which I lay. In chairs beside the bed sat Lady Éowyn of Rohan, my father's Healer Master Pelendur, and my seneschal Master Gavrilo. Standing by the window and turning suddenly toward me was Húrin Keeper of the Keys, and beyond the chairs that guarded the bed, halted apparently in the process of pacing across the room, was Ivarr son of Yngvar, Leader of the Innkeepers' Guild and Landlord of the Orc's Head Tavern.

A rare smile lit the face of Éowyn Daughter of Éomund. She bowed her head to me when she noted my gaze upon her. When she lifted her head again, she smiled still: a smile tinged, as always, with sadness, but yet I thought that I was very glad to see her smile.

She was not alone in showing both happiness and grief. I saw the same from most of those about me – smiles upon seeing me awake, that were quickly succeeded by expressions far more grim.

Pippin and Merry leapt down from the bed and ran in front of Pelendur, Gavrilo and Éowyn, to halt beside my pillow. Pippin took my hand that lay outside the covers and clasped it in both of his, and Merry said a trifle gruffly, "You've had us worried, Boromir. Pippin's been crying so much, I thought he was going to flood all of Gondor."

Pippin rolled his eyes at his cousin and said, "You've been crying too." Turning back to me, he said earnestly, "You mustn't do that to us ever again."

"I will endeavour not to," I told him, my voice sounding rusty and faint with disuse.

I knew very well what had caused the grief of all about me. I did not want to speak of it, but I knew there was no point in delay. Waiting to speak of it would not make it any less true.

"My father is dead," I said. "Isn't he?" As I asked that question, I knew an instant's absurd stab of hope that in fact it would not be true, that the fight I remembered was only a vision of nightmare. But I knew the answer, for it was spoken all too clearly by the expressions of all the people in that room.

"Yes, My Lord," Master Pelendur said quietly. "I am very sorry."

"I'm so sorry, Boromir," Merry added. There were murmurs of the same from some of the others; some nodded, and Master Ivarr the innkeeper turned abruptly away. Old Gavrilo my seneschal began silently to weep, his face lowered and his shoulders shaking so that I grieved to look on him.

For a moment I closed my eyes, letting my head rest on the pillow. It hurt to hear Pelendur's words, but I did not feel the same despairing dread as I had on that hideous ride back to the River. I told myself, _It__ is right and proper for you to grieve. But grief cannot take the place of duty. All of Gondor is looking to you now. It is for you to lead them, not to hide yourself away in your grief._

I opened my eyes and achingly managed to prop myself up on one elbow. My eyes lit again on Svip, who had not moved from his place since first I woke. He sat at the foot of the bed, gazing down.

"Svip," I said, "Svip, and Pippin, both of you – I should have thanked you last night." I paused then and asked, "Was it last night?"

"The night before last," Lady Éowyn told me.

"Night before last," I echoed. For a moment I marvelled on that, amazed that I had managed to sleep a whole day and night through. But, I reminded myself, Svip had told me that I'd slept for two days when he brought me back from death. I supposed I'd been near enough to death this time; it should not surprise me that I'd slept almost as long.

"Svip, Pippin, both of you deserve more thanks than I can ever speak. You accomplished more than should ever have been asked of you. Svip, I'm sorry I didn't thank you, for everything you did – for bringing all of us home."

Svip looked up, for an instant, and I caught my breath at the wild grief in his gaze. Then his glance dropped again and he muttered, "You don't need to thank me."

I thought it best not to pursue that further, with all of these others present. Instead I asked, "Where has my father's body been placed?"

Ivarr Son of Yngvar answered, "Here, My Lord, at the Orc's Head – in our best room."

Master Pelendur put in, "His attendants have already washed the body and cleaned the wounds, in preparation for bringing the Lord Steward's body into the City. We waited, My Lord, until more should become known of your condition, before proceeding further."

I nodded. It was, I thought, a wait that I was very sorry to have imposed upon them – a vigil to see whether they would accompany one corpse into the City, or two.

I asked, "What is there else that I should know? The fighting at Emyn Arnen – "

"Good news there, My Lord," said Húrin of the Keys, looking immensely relieved to have some good tidings to report. "I believe we can truthfully say that that force of Orcs, at least, is routed. The fighting continued late into the night, until what few of the enemy were left fled again into the hills. The Riders of Rohan pursued them to the edge of the foothills, but no further. When the daylight came, the count was of near five hundreds and fifty of the enemy slain. The Rohirrim fought gallantly, as is their wont. They lost nine Men killed, with seventeen wounded."

Lady Éowyn added quietly, "The patrols continue with increased manpower, Lord Boromir. They have met with several small bands of Orcs, and have successfully dealt with all of them." She paused, then continued in more vehement, impulsive tones, "My Lord, the people of Rohan grieve with you – and we regret it in our hearts that you and your Lord father left alive none of those Orcs that you encountered. Sorely do we wish that our spears might have joined your swords in wrecking vengeance upon them."

"I thank you, Lady of Rohan," I said. "The vengeance wrought upon others of their kin would be equally sweet to the Lord my father. I grieve with you the loss of your Men. The achievements of the Rohirrim, as ever, merit the highest thanks and honour."

We could talk of these things all the morning, I thought, but that would not accomplish any of the duties that awaited us. I said, "I thank all of you for your efforts and your care. I believe that I am fit to return to the City." I glanced in question at Master Pelendur, who frowned a little, but nodded. "Húrin," I went on, "is an hour's time sufficient for any preparations yet needed before the Lord Steward's body is escorted to the City?"

Húrin bowed. "It will be sufficient. With your leave, My Lord, I will go myself to see that all preparations are in hand."

Húrin, Ivarr and Lady Éowyn departed from the room, the lady giving Merry permission to remain longer with Pippin, and attend on her again when we set forth for the City. When the others had gone, I sat up dizzily and swung my feet around to the floor. Gavrilo, Pelendur, Pippin and Merry all hovered nervously about me, until I managed a weary smile and waved them back. "It is all right," I said, "I think. I don't think I am falling over just yet."

I was clad in a nightshirt – my own, I thought; Gavrilo must have brought it to the inn – and I saw a bandage about my right shin. I was not certain yet what other bandaging I might have under the nightshirt, but from the extent of my aches, it was likely a considerable amount.

I asked Master Pelendur, "What wounds did I sustain? I was not certain of any, save for an arrow in my shoulder."

"Aye, there was that one," Pelendur said dryly. "The arrow is out of the wound now; we had that out while you slept. You have been lucky, My Lord – as your family generally is. You have another arrow wound in your right shin, a sword-cut on your left forearm, various minor cuts, a myriad of bruises, and two broken ribs."

"Ah," I said. "That will be from the Orc that fell on me."

"Very likely. You are, again, fortunate there; the ribs appear to have pierced no organs. They will cause you discomfort, but not, I would say, any other difficulties. They should be largely healed in six weeks' time; likely fully so in eight. I would not, however, advise you take any part in combat until the eight weeks are up."

I grimaced, and said, "I will do my best on that, Master Pelendur." Looking from him to Pippin, and feeling guilty for not speaking of it earlier, I said, "Pelendur, Pippin – forgive me for not asking you sooner. You are both well, and Master Cosimo, and my father's guards? I dreaded what he might have done to you to secure his release from your care."

Pelendur answered, his expression bitter and bleak, "I must take full responsibility for that, My Lord. I underestimated the strength and determination of which he would be capable, when he awoke. It may be that he was awake and planning his strategy before he gave any sign of waking. He called Master Peregrin to him and requested a drink of water, and when Peregrin was within his reach, the Lord Steward seized him, holding the halfling's own sword to Master Peregrin's throat. With his esquire thus as hostage, your Lord father – " the Healer paused, angry shame for a moment choking off his words. Scowling furiously, he went on, "Your Lord father compelled Master Cosimo and I and the two guards to bind each others' wrists, the halfling binding those of the second guard, and the Steward Denethor then locked the lot of us in his wardrobe."

"Good gods," I murmured, for a moment staring at the Healer in disbelief. I had a hideously inappropriate urge to laugh, but I fought it down. "I am sorry, Master Pelendur. I should have left more guards under your command – "

"I doubt it would have helped, My Lord," was his acerbic reply. "There would merely have been more of us crammed into the wardrobe. It is my fault. I underestimated the Lord Denethor's capabilities. I should have known him well enough not to do so. He was a formidable Man – formidable both when in his right mind, and when outside it."

I whispered, "He was that, indeed. Pippin – I am sorry, again. Did he hurt you?"

"No," Pippin said, shaking his head vehemently. "No, he didn't. I don't think he would have, really …" his voice trailed off a little uncertainly, before he went on, "I don't think he would have. He tied me up and gagged me while he was arming himself, and then he held his dagger on me until we got over the River, but … I'm sure he didn't _want_ to hurt me. If I'd forced him to do something, it would have been the Dark Lord's doing, not his. He was very kind to me once it was too late for me to give the alarm. He talked with me while we rode, he told me about some of his campaigns on the borders when he was young, and he got me talking about the Shire." Looking and sounding again on the brink of tears, the young Hobbit said, "I'm sorry, Boromir. I should have figured out some way of stopping him."

I shook my head. "I don't think there was anything you could have done," I said. "Either of you," I added, looking up at grim-faced Master Pelendur. "He was too much for all of us."

Pelendur gave a strained, sob-like laugh. "Aye, My Lord," he said. "That he was."

Master Gavrilo, his voice hoarse but attempting to sound business-like, said to me, "I have brought a change of clothes for you, My Lord. Your clothing was somewhat the worse for wear."

"Yes," I said, "I'm sure that it was." I stood up gingerly. "Gavrilo – I hope that Master Cosimo is uninjured, after the time he spent confined in the wardrobe?"

"I believe my brother is unharmed, thank you sir," Gavrilo replied. "There was room to stand in the wardrobe, so it was not so painful for him as it might have been. He wished to ride with the troops when they set out after your Lord father, and it took some effort to argue him out of it. I have not seen him since word came of the Lord Denethor's death. I fear he will not be taking it well."

I nodded, Gavrilo and I sharing a grim look before my seneschal glanced quickly away.

In silence, Master Gavrilo assisted me to dress. The process was made more difficult by my attempts to move as little as possible.

Pippin went back to sit beside Svip on the bed, while Merry sat on the edge of the bed, near to them. I saw Pippin reach out to hold Svip's hand. But although the water creature allowed him to do so, Svip still did not look up.

Pippin cast a worried look at Svip, then he met eyes with me, while I was doing the same. After another furtive glance over at Svip, Pippin asked me, "Boromir – what do you remember about how you got across the River?"

I frowned as I thought of that, while Gavrilo was fastening my tunic. "I …" I began, then I realised that my memories made no sense at all. "I remember the water lifting me up from the shore … and carrying me – somewhere, and then leaving me on land again. But that can't be right," I said.

"But it is right," Svip answered suddenly. His voice was flat and surly, not like him at all. But at least he had looked up, and he was speaking to us. "It's what happened. We both saw it. Didn't we, Pippin?"

"Yes," Pippin admitted in a helpless tone. "Yes, we did. Damnedest thing I ever saw," he went on, then he added quickly, "sorry."

I smiled faintly, and said, "No offence taken, Mister Took. I'm afraid your sojourn in the lands of Men has not been good for your language."

"Oh," put in Merry, "he said that and worse, years before he met any of the Big Folk. It's true, though," Meriadoc continued, with a mystified frown. "We didn't see the River lifting you, but when Lady Éowyn and the search party and I caught up with all of you, there were Pippin and Svip on one side of the River, trying to figure out how they were going to get across to you without – without abandoning Lord Denethor's body; and there you were, lying as flat as a mackerel on the other side of the River!"

"That … is amazing," I murmured, staring at Pippin and Svip. "You saw the River do all of that? Truly?"

"Yes," Pippin said again, nodding. "Of course Svip saw it more clearly than I did, but I definitely saw the water – reach out for you, like a wave, only the wave wasn't anywhere except right around you, and it lifted you up and carried you out into the River."

"Svip?" I asked. "What do you think it means?"

"The River wanted to help," Svip said, looking up at me with a sort of sullen defiance. "It could tell you were in trouble and It knew you should be on the western shore, not the east, so It picked you up and It carried you there, that's all."

"I … If that is so, then I thank It," I said. "Perhaps you can help me determine what I can do to show It my gratitude."

Svip nodded, but his gaze dropped from mine again.

This was worthy a great deal more thought, but I told myself that now was not the time to think of it.

I had managed to get into my breeches without serious mishap. Now I sat again carefully and allowed Gavrilo to aid me in the effort of pulling on my boots.

Merry meanwhile was going on with the story. "Svip and Pippin waited till they'd given the Lord Steward's body into the search party's care, and then – Lady Éowyn gave me permission to go with them – Pip and I rode on Svip's back and he swam across the River, so we could wait with you until the troops could ride back 'round to the Harlond, cross the River, and then ride up again to reach you. Svip said it would be best to keep you near the River, so that's why we brought you here. Are you – do you feel all right, Boromir?"

I smiled faintly. "Yes. Thank you, Merry. The ribs are a little annoying, but I am fine."

I sighed then, for a moment sinking back into cowardice. There were things that I must do, things that I no longer had any excuse for delaying. But I longed for an excuse, for some means of escape. For that one miserable moment, I wished that I had never awakened to face what I must face now.

Getting to my feet, I said to Gavrilo and Pelendur, "I would look on my Lord father's body before we go into the City. Can you take me to where he has been placed?"

"Aye, My Lord," Master Pelendur said grimly. He bowed, but not soon enough to conceal from me the pain and sorrow on his face.

The Orc's Head Inn seemed unnaturally silent as Pelendur led me through the upstairs corridor. Never had I spent much time at the Orc's Head in the hours of daylight. But those few memories I did have of the Inn in the daytime were accompanied by peaceful, homelike sounds: Ivarr's wife singing as she worked in the kitchen, the bright young voices of the daughters of the house calling to each other as they went about the day's cleaning, Ivarr himself whistling while he washed out the tankards and goblets used the night before, or chatting with the few customers who wiled their days away in the tavern's common room.

I reminded myself that Ivarr's family, and most of his customers as well, must be not yet returned to the City, along with the majority of Minas Tirith's people.

Even if they had returned, there would be little cause for singing on this day.

"Here, My Lord," sounded Pelendur's quiet tones, as he opened for me the door to one of the chambers, and then stepped aside.

"Thank you, Master Pelendur," I told him. I walked into the room, and heard the Healer discreetly pull the door closed behind me.

I recognized the room; it was one in which I had stayed a time or two over the years. It seemed now strangely bare. I realised that it was missing the tapestries that usually hung on the walls, as, I thought now, was the room in which I'd awakened. The tapestries, I supposed, had fallen victim to the Harlond's recent occupation by our enemies' army. As for the massive, dark carven bed, it must have survived untouched both the occupation and our desperate race to construct carts out of every boat, bench and bed along the waterfront, simply because this bed was too large and heavy to repay anyone's efforts to move it. I wondered if in fact the Inn's second story had been constructed around that bed, or if the bed had been constructed in this very room.

I was trying to think of something else, anything else, save the body that lay on that bed.

I caught myself speculating about the bed where I had slept this day and night past, trying to remember if it showed signs of recent re-construction after seeing service as a cart. I snarled at myself, _Blast you, Boromir, that does not matter_. I walked closer to the bed, and gazed down upon my father's body.

His servants had dressed him in fresh clothing, the familiar black and silver raiment of our house, as well as cleansing him of all soiling and blood. The body lay uncovered, and his sword and his bow were laid by his side. I wondered distractedly how the sword and bow came to be there; Pippin, I supposed, must have placed the sword back in my father's scabbard – it had surely been difficult for him, for the sword was nearly as tall as was Pippin – and Pippin had probably carried the bow himself during that last nightmare ride. The collar of the tunic in which the Steward's body had been dressed was a high one, and covered all but the uppermost edge of the long sword-wound, that I knew must slice across his neck and down into his chest.

I gazed at his face, and I wanted of a sudden to flee from that room, even though there was no particular horror in what I saw.

I had seen dead Men aplenty: Men who had died in anguish, and in relative peace; bodies savaged by animals and the ravages of decay, and those who had been brutally butchered by the foe. There was nothing here that should make me wish to avert my eyes.

But I thought of how empty his face seemed, even though his eyes were not open to reveal the greater emptiness that would lie in their unseeing gaze. I thought of how wrong it seemed, to see his face so still and void of expression.

I closed my eyes suddenly and pictured him alive, as intensely and vividly as I could. I pictured him as he had addressed our troops before battle, twenty-five years ago and more, in the Cair Andros Campaign of 2993. I saw the gleam of his sword as he drew it and held it high, heard the ringing of his voice, saw the fierceness and pride that blazed in his eyes. I heard our Men cheering for his speech, cheering for their Steward.

I opened my eyes.

Another memory came to me: of my father coming to my room and waking me, one wintry night when I was five years old. He had walked with me through the torchlit corridors, holding my hand and slowing his pace to match it to mine, and he had led me to the chamber where lay the body of my grandfather, the Steward Ecthelion II.

I remembered my father's voice, quiet and with an unfamiliar tinge of uncertainty, as he told me I should look carefully at my grandfather, so I could remember him as he had been. I remembered my father saying to me, "When we see him next, in the House of the Stewards, he will look different. More like … a statue, like all our other ancestors there. But even though you will see him like that, Boromir, even though you will see him like that, every time you stand in the House of the Stewards for the rest of your life, that is not the way I want you to remember him."

I had nodded, and said, "Yes, Father." But I had thought that _this_ was not the way I remembered my grandfather, either, not this frail, somehow shrunken-seeming figure in the bed. He ought to be striding through the corridors with his guards and attendants running to keep up with him, or rumbling out his laugh so loud and deep that when I was very little, my nurse had told me that the thunder was only the sound of my grandfather laughing.

That night, by my grandfather's deathbed, I had asked my father that most unanswerable of questions: I had asked him why people had to die.

He had walked me back to my room, and as we walked he told me the legend that death is Ilúvatar's gift to Men; that there is more to see and know than can be found within the borders of this world, and death is the road by which we can find it.

As my father tucked me into my bed, I had asked him if the legend was true.

He had kissed me on the forehead, and told me, "I don't know."

Even then, as young as I was, I had realized how rare it was for my father to admit that there was anything he did not know.

As I stood in that room of the Orc's Head and gazed at my father's face, I wondered if he knew the answer now.

I walked from the room. The corridor outside that door at first seemed deserted. Then I saw Svip, sitting huddled against the far wall.

He jumped up and hurried over to me. "Boromir," his words rushed out, "Boromir, I can't bring him back. I'm sorry. It's too late, and I haven't any silverweed – I should have got some, I should have gone to fetch some, I should have gone as soon as the siege was ended, I should have known we'd need it. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

I knelt down to face him. "Svip," I said, "do not do this to yourself, please. It is not your fault."

"But I should have gone to get some. I could have fetched some, easily. Instead of wasting time training with the horses, I could have gone upriver and harvested some silverweed, and been back in time …"

"No, Svip," I insisted. "My father would not have approved it, and no more would I. We are still at war. We do not know how many of the enemy may still be between us and your part of the River. They may still hold Cair Andros, and how many more of them may patrol the River, we cannot know. My father would never have wished to see you go into such danger, merely to fetch an herb that might someday bring him back to life. We cannot live like that, Svip. There is more to Men's lives than simply struggling not to die." I shook my head and sighed. "Besides," I murmured, "I do not know if he would wish to return to life now, or not."

And it was true, I thought; I did not know. I told myself, _Of__ course he would; why would he not? _I_ am glad to have returned to my life, why should not he be also?_ But I thought then of the torments of mind that my father had endured in these last days, and I thought also of the rage and shame that he must feel, when or if he brought himself to understand how the Dark Lord had come to direct his actions and his thoughts.

Was it not better that he should be spared that?

_But he would wish to return_, my thoughts answered me. _He would be glad to return, regardless of all, even as I am glad that I returned. He would be glad, for in life he would have the chance to fight for our country, as he cannot do in death. He would always wish to return._

But I would not say so to Svip; of a certainty that was not what he needed to hear. I did not know if anything I could say would help, but I took Svip's small, thin shoulders in my hands, and I said to him, "Svip, you fought as bravely and nobly as has ever any warrior of Gondor. You should feel pride in your accomplishments, not shame for what you did not do. There were chances that I missed, choices I made that had I chosen differently, it might have led me to save him. But yet perhaps that would not have saved him. Perhaps there was nothing that could. We cannot know, Svip, and all we can do is to strive to live in such ways as would make him proud of us."

Svip stared at me, then he shook his head, his big eyes filled with uncomprehending grief. "I do not know how you do it," he whispered to me. "I do not know how."

"Boromir?" Peregrin Took's voice sounded tentatively from down the hallway, followed by his equally tentative footsteps. "I'm sorry, Boromir. Lord Húrin is outside, with some of the soldiers. He asks if … if they can proceed with bringing out Lord Denethor's body."

"Yes," I said. I got to my feet, and Svip reluctantly did the same. "I will go below and tell Lord Húrin that they can proceed."

A company of the City Guard were assembled outside the Orc's Head. They waited silently on horseback, lining either side of the street. The Men of the Carters' Guild must have set to their labours as soon as the news came of my father's death, for the large wain that waited in the street must have been built solely for the purpose at hand. A bier was constructed within it, that the Lord Steward's body would be clearly visible to those who gathered to mark his passing. At its front and along either side, the wain was carved and painted with black medallions, on which the Tree of Gondor shone in hues of mithril.

Húrin and Master Ivarr led a detachment of the Guard within, carrying a stretcher draped with cloth of gold on which they would bear forth the Lord's body. Svip and Pippin had both accompanied me outside, and now I spoke to each of them.

I asked Svip if I might ride him into the City. From the grief and shame upon his face, I feared that he would refuse, that he would say he should not be in the procession, since he had failed to save the Lord Steward's life. But though he averted his eyes from me, he nodded in reply.

To Pippin I said, "As my father's esquire, it is your place to stand behind him in the wain, and to carry his sword. I think you will be the first person not of Gondor ever to fulfil that duty. If you would rather not do it, I understand. But the place is yours, if you will accept it."

The Hobbit looked more than a little uncertain, but he said, "Of course I want to do it. Only, the sword is a little heavy … I'm not sure I can hold it up for that long."

"You need not worry about that," I assured him. "You can stand it up before you in the wain; then you will not have to bear its weight."

His face brightened a bit at that, and he took a deep breath. "All right, I'll do it," he said quietly. "Thank you."

The Guards drew their swords as one and saluted as the Steward's body was carried forth. They held the salute until the stretcher and its burden were placed upon the bier. Then, to the sound of the Guards sheathing their swords, I lifted Pippin up to stand in the back of the wain.

That, I knew at once, was something I should not have done. My ribs twinged as though someone had kicked them, and I had to bite my lip and strive to keep the pain from showing on my face.

Lord Húrin would have handed me my father's sword, to hand in turn to Pippin. But I nodded for him to do so instead. Húrin bowed to me, eyeing me in concern, then he handed the sword up to Pippin and helped him to stand it in place.

Húrin Keeper of the Keys went forward to mount up at the head of the procession. He waited then until Svip had taken his horse form, and I – a good deal more slowly and cautiously than usual – had mounted up on his back. Then the cortège set forth along the street of Waterfront.

Lord Húrin rode first. Behind him came the wain, driven by one of the City Guard. Svip and I followed after, and behind us rode Lady Éowyn with Merry seated before her, Masters Pelendur, Ivarr and Gavrilo, and last the company of Guardsmen.

In the unusual quiet of the town, the hoofbeats on the cobblestones sounded hollow and cold. The cries of the seabirds and the soft creaking of the wain seemed to blend together as a funeral dirge in my mind. I thought that I would never again hear those sounds without thinking of this day.

The morning had turned grey and almost cold. As we passed through the gate and onto the Harlond Road, a wind from the north blew in upon us, catching at our cloaks and causing Svip to shiver beneath me. I patted his mane.

The White City before us, beneath the dark mountain and the brooding clouds, looked faint and only half visible, more distant than it truly was in the morning's weak light. It looked almost like a vision that some magic had conjured, and that at any moment might vanish from our sight.

But the City did not vanish. At length the Great Gate of Minas Tirith creaked open before our procession, and the trumpets sounded in the fanfare that welcomed the Steward home.

For every foot of that journey, as we followed the winding route up the Hill of Guard, our people crowded the street at either side. For a moment I ungraciously wished that there were more of them; wished that all of those who'd been evacuated had been able to return in time, that they might be here to honour their fallen Lord. But, I told myself, all of them must wish themselves at home as well. All who could be here; were here. Even with several hundreds of our Men at work in Osgiliath, and riding on the day's patrols, people yet had gathered along every step of the way.

Some watched in silence, removing their hats or helmets as we passed. There was a muted undertone of weeping, along all the Street of the Citadel. Many spoke quiet words of farewell, stepping into the street to touch the Lord Steward's wain, or to cast into the wain bright flowers from their terrace gardens. Many, as well, pressed close on either side about Svip and me, murmuring condolences and reaching out to clasp my hands.

I tried to acknowledge all of them, tried to meet the eyes of each whose hand touched mine, and to utter my thanks to all of them who spoke to me. But I am certain that none of them blamed me, when my gaze clouded with tears, and I was not able to acknowledge each of them in turn.

The thought came to me that no Man alive had seen brought home to the City a Steward of Gondor slain in battle. Though we had been at war without cease, in conflicts greater and lesser for more than five hundred years, my father was only the third Ruling Steward to fall in combat. No Steward slain in combat had been carried up the Hill of Guard since Thorondir my thrice-great-grandfather, and none other before him, save for Húrin II.

I felt a perverse sort of pride that my father should be numbered among that brief list. I thought that he also would feel pride in it; although he would deny it and would cast scorn at me for admitting to any such feeling. He would remind me that a Man need not fall in combat to fight bravely for his country, and that many of our greatest Stewards had died at home in their beds.

Yet still, I thought, he would take pride in it, even though he did not admit to it, and he would smile at being named in the same breath as Thorondir and Húrin. I smiled faintly myself, as I thought of schoolchildren of future years, committing the list of the Stewards to their memories and reading of the final battles of Húrin II, Thorondir, and Denethor II.

Some Stewards there were who became little more than names. Justly or unjustly, few of their deeds were remembered, when all of those who had known them in life were gone.

My father would not be one of those. I was glad of it, and I knew that he would be glad of it as well.

Through the long twisting turns of street and tunnel, we climbed the Hill of Guard, through the seas of tear-streaked faces and the murmurs of sorrow and blessing that rose like waves as we drew near.

As we rode, the sky had grown darker. The clouds pressed heavy upon us. I glanced up into their darkness. A thick pall seemed to hang above us, just beyond the Tower of Ecthelion's spire. I thought that no clouds should loom that dark without breaking forth in rain. But we rode on along the Street of the Citadel, and no rain fell.

We passed Faramir's townhouse, where all of his household were assembled outside the gate to pay their respects to our Lord. We rode through the tunnel of the Fifth Level, and past my own townhouse, where all the people of my household in turn waited to bid their farewells to the Lord Denethor.

The street turned toward the Sixth Level's gate, where we would give my father's body into the care of the embalmers in the Houses of Healing. As we made that last turning, the north wind that had blown cold and steady upon us since we had left the Harlond, seemed suddenly to die.

It was as sudden as though someone had shut a door through which the wind had been blowing. For a moment utter silence seemed to close in upon us. That silence was succeeded by whispers, from the people lining the street and those in our procession alike.

Húrin Keeper of the Keys pulled his horse to a halt, and held up his hand for the rest of the procession to halt likewise. But I think that the same instinct which called upon Húrin to stop, had spoken as well to the rest of us. Most had slowed or halted entirely before ever Húrin gave his command.

Húrin turned in the saddle and looked back, with a mystified frown. Standing before us in the wain, Pippin turned around as well. I saw him looking at something behind me, then his eyes widened and he said in a clear, wondering voice, "Look. Look there."

Svip turned around so that the two of us could look. I felt him shiver again, and I stroked his mane as I tried to make sense of what I saw.

In the distance beyond Anduin stood the Mountains of Shadow, as they had always stood, dark sentinels ever reminding us of the power of Mordor. Beyond them, as they had burned since two decades before I was born, gleamed the red and black shadows of Orodruin the Mountain of Fire, the distant and undying promise of doom.

Yet something was different in that sight, different now from anything that it had ever been.

It seemed that beyond the mountains, another vast mountain of darkness rose. It towered up above the Mountains of Shadow, like a great black wave that would engulf the world.

Svip gasped and took a step backward as bolts of lightning flared through that wave of darkness.

Suddenly the very earth seemed to tremble. The cobbles of the street shuddered beneath us. All about us I saw people stumbling, catching themselves on their neighbours or reaching out to hold up others who would have fallen. Horses neighed forlornly in fear, as their riders strove to calm them while yet staring at the darkness beyond the mountains.

As abruptly as it had begun, the tremor ceased. A wind arose, blowing now full upon us out of the east.

"Look," Svip whispered. "Look."

The great wave of shadow sank and faded, like tendrils of smoke blown away upon the wind. I stared beyond the mountains, startled to see what looked like blue, sunlit sky beyond their shadows. It took me some moments longer to realise that the blue sky stretched over Minas Tirith as well. The clouds had fled from above us, faster than should have been possible, and the White Tower of Ecthelion gleamed in the morning's sunlight.

I swallowed and slowly shook my head, all the while stroking Svip's mane. I did not want to let myself think, to ask myself what all of this might mean.

Merry, sitting perched before the Lady Éowyn, suddenly turned his head. His gaze met mine, in an expression of wonder. He looked past me to Pippin, then back at me. "The Ring," Merry said quietly. "Maybe it's the Ring."

Pippin gave a sharp little gasp. I turned to him, and saw on Pippin's face both hesitation and hope. He looked up at me and whispered, "Do you think that's what it is?"

I turned again, to gaze at the blue sky shining above the Mountains of Shadow.

"Maybe," I said.

"The Mountain of Fire is over there, isn't it?" Merry persisted.

"Yes," I said. "It is."

My voice sounded flat and curt. This was an explanation of which I did not feel ready to think. The Ring, the Dark Lord and all their doings – not to mention whatever perils might be facing Frodo and Sam, if they even still lived – seemed intrusions that I did not want in my thoughts. On this morning when the Lord my father lay slain, I did not wish to allow myself, or anyone else, to think of anything but him.

_No one is hurt_, I told myself. _That is the main thing_. All the people and horses about us stood firmly on their feet, and there was no hint now of the tremor that had seemed to shake the entire City.

I glanced over my shoulder again toward the head of our procession, and a moment later Svip followed my lead and turned.

For a moment I gazed at the body of my father, at his face white as the buildings of our City. The silver on his tunic and the cloth-of-gold beneath him blazed fiercely in the sun.

Then I said to Húrin of the Keys, "My Lord Húrin, I believe we can go on. Pray give the order to proceed."

He bowed to me, raised his hand in command, then turned and rode on. The wain moved forward again, and the rest of us followed, escorting the body of the Lord Steward Denethor through the Sixth Level's gate.

At the entrance to the Houses of Healing waited the Chief Healer with all of his deputies, the Dame of the Houses and a goodly number of the Healers' Assistants. To the left of the Chief Healer stood the four Healers who were trained also as embalmers, wearing upon their chests the bejewelled chains of office that were only ever seen upon such occasions.

The people of the Houses all bowed or curtsied as the wain halted before them. I told Svip that we should stop by the right side of the wain, and Svip stepped into place there while Húrin took his place at the wain's other side. The Lady of Rohan with Merry, Master Pelendur and Master Gavrilo halted behind the wain, and the City Guards rode on, until they formed a semi-circle facing the Houses of Healing.

When the last of my father's escort had moved into place, the Chief Healer stepped forward and stated formally, "My Lord Steward Boromir, it is with sorrow and love that we welcome you and the Lord your father home. We grieve to see the arrival of this day, but we rejoice that we see you amongst us, living and well."

"I thank you, My Lord Warden," I replied. "With sorrow and love we give the body of the Lord Steward Denethor into your care."

The Guardsman who had driven the wain to this point stood up, to relinquish the coachman's place to one of the servants of the Houses. Before the Guard could climb down, I asked of him, "Will you help Master Peregrin to place the Lord's sword by his side? You've fulfilled your duty here, Pippin. It is not for any of us to follow him now."

With the Guard's help, Pippin carefully set my father's sword beside him on the bier. Then both of them climbed down from the front of the wain, the Guard turning to lift Pippin down so he need not make an undignified leap.

The servant of the Houses took his place and the reins. The wide gate beside the Houses' main entrance opened. The wain started slowly onward, with the four embalmers, two and two, falling into step behind.

As the wain passed through the gate, I thought again of my father's words as we stood by my grandfather's deathbed.

_When we see him next, in the House of the Stewards, he will look different … like a statue, like all our other ancestors there._

Behind the wain and the embalmers, the gate closed once more. With a ponderous thud it was shut at last.

The Warden of the Houses bowed to me. Then he turned and walked in through the entrance of the Houses. In a long single-file all of his people followed him, until the street held only those who had made up our procession, and the attendants of the Citadel's stables, mustered in respectful silence at either side of the stable gates.

For a moment more, the calling of the seabirds and the voice of the wind were the only sounds. Then Húrin of the Keys drew his sword and with it saluted the gate of the Houses, closed behind our fallen Lord. The Guards of the City all did likewise. Almost in perfect unison the swords were sheathed once more, and Húrin's voice rang out, "Company dismissed!"

Gingerly I got down from Svip's back, while the rest of the procession dismounted and turned over their steeds to the stable hands who hastened forward to take charge of them. Svip changed to his own form. The others who had watched at my bedside now clustered about me, with the hesitant looks of those who know not whether it is time to speak of grief, or to remain silent.

Only Lady Éowyn and Merry had remained on horseback. The lady spoke quietly now, "My Lord, permit me to express again Rohan's condolences, and my own. With your leave, Merry and I will return to the Rohirrim's barracks; unless there is a task at hand in which we can be of use."

"My thanks, Lady of Rohan," I answered her. "You have good leave."

Master Pelendur was studying me with a Healer's disapproving eye. "Will you take some rest now, My Lord?" he asked – in a resigned tone that told he knew very well what my answer was like to be.

"There is no need," I said. "I've done nothing but rest this day and night past."

I tried to think of what needed most immediately to be done. "Húrin, set the Guards to checking through the City, and send also to check the Rammas posts, and Osgiliath – learn what damage, if any, has been done by that earthquake, and what repairs may be needed." To my seneschal I said, "Gavrilo, will you come with me to visit Master Cosimo, and see how he fares? Then you may return to the townhouse. There will be no changes yet in the households, or the distribution of staff. I will require … some time yet to determine what changes may be needful."

I paused to think of what I should do after visiting Cosimo, and I bit my lip at the thought of what I would _not_ do on this particular return to the City: stop in to make my reports to the Lord my father. I said, "After that I will be in … the office in the White Tower." I had caught myself before saying "my father's office", but to call it "my office" yet was more than I could manage.

With Gavrilo, Pippin and Svip, I set out into the tunnel to the Citadel. We spoke little until we reached the Place of the Fountain. Then, as I stopped to listen to the Fountain and watch the sunlight sparkle on its waters, Svip asked in harsh and strained tones, "Do you need me for anything? If not – I'd like to get some sleep."

I was by no means certain how he wanted me to answer that – to say that I did need him, or that I did not. I hedged my bets by saying, "Of course, you should get whatever rest you need. That goes for you as well, Pippin. I doubt you've had the day and a half's sleep that I've had."

"I'm fine," Pippin said quickly. "I did get some sleep, really."

Svip was plodding off to the Fountain without another word. His dejected pace and his silence both were so very unlike him, that I called after him in some foreboding, "You will go to the River with me in the morning, Svip? As usual?"

Crouched on the edge of the Fountain, he said without looking back, "All right. If you want me to." Then he jumped in and swam to the centre of the Fountain. A moment later we saw him in his usual place beyond the curtain of water, eyes firmly closed as though he had fallen into instant sleep.

The interview with Master Cosimo was brief. We found him in his rooms near my father's chambers. The old gentleman sat by his fireplace, in which a small blaze burned, with blankets draped over his shoulders and his legs. The windows' shutters were closed, the sunlight piercing through in tiny slivers between the slats of the shutters.

My father's seneschal, of course, insisted on standing to greet me, despite my protests that he should do nothing of the kind. The blanket that had been on his legs he laid carefully aside upon the chair, with the ingrained neatness of one who had spent all his life in close proximity to my father.

Fiercely striving to restrain the grief in his voice, he spoke his condolences to me, and his regrets at not having stopped my father from leaving the City. He asked if the people of the Steward's household had my leave to start putting the Lord Denethor's effects in order; they had waited to begin until they received my commands upon the subject.

It would be a brief enough task, I thought. There would be few indeed of my father's effects that were at all _out_ of order. I gave my authority for the work to begin, but for nothing yet to be removed from his chambers. All papers that he might have had out, I asked to be brought to the office in the White Tower.

I wondered if there was anything else that would require the servants' attention. My father's chambers, I thought, had looked scarcely more lived-in when he was here with us, than they would after his servants finished putting them in order.

Gavrilo asked my leave to remain a while longer with his brother, a request I very gladly granted. I begged Cosimo to get what rest he needed and to take all care of his health, and not to blame himself for these things that had transpired. He bowed stiffly – without, I noted, making any promise to obey those particular commands – and when he had laboriously straightened again, I took the old Man's hand in both of mine.

For the first time, some sign of the sorrow under which he was labouring showed through on Master Cosimo's face. With shaking fingers he grasped my hand, and he spoke in sudden fervour, "My Lord Boromir, never doubt that it is better this way. It is better for you, and for all of us, to be left to mourn him, than for him to live to again mourn your loss. I saw – all of us saw – what he went through at your death. We should thank the Valar that he will not suffer so again."

"Thank you, my dear friend," I said to him. I left swiftly then with Pippin at my heels, before I could succumb to the tears that trembled behind Cosimo's words and my own.

Outside once more in the sunlight, I was confident that I had my emotions back under better control. As Pippin and I made our way from the King's House to the Tower of Ecthelion, the Hobbit began, "Boromir?" He immediately stopped, and asked, "Is it still all right for me to call you that? Now that you're the Steward?"

"Yes," I assured him, "of course it's all right. Do not ever doubt that, Pippin. It will always be all right."

He smiled briefly, then he went on in hesitating tones. "I didn't think I should ask you before, with all the fine folk about. But – what should I do now? I was your father's esquire, and now – I don't know what I'm supposed to do – what you want me to do."

"There's nothing you're supposed to do," I said, "if you don't want to. You gave your allegiance to my father. You're not bound to serve his successor, unless you choose to. You're a guest in Minas Tirith; an honoured guest and a very welcome one. You need be no other than that."

"Well," he said, frowning a little, "but I remember the oath. I said 'I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm'. It was to Gondor and the Steward, not just to Lord Denethor. I shouldn't like to go back on that. And I – I'd like to know I'm being useful. Merry serves Éomer King and Lady Éowyn, now that Théoden King is gone. Couldn't I be your esquire now? I'd rather do that, really, than just sitting about being a guest – that is, if you don't mind."

I had to smile at Pippin's bashful offer of fealty. "Of course I don't mind. I would be honoured – so long as you promise to remember that you're my friend first, whatever other rank you may hold. I've no wish to gain a servant only to lose a friend. Is it a bargain?"

"It's a bargain," Pippin said, solemnly gazing up at me. "I promise."

"I'll tell you what," I said, as we walked on, "you can be my esquire here in the Citadel, but you'd better not be at my townhouse. I've an esquire of my chamber there already; I don't want Balamir thinking you've stolen his place from him. You can run errands and help me while I'm working – and one thing you can do that will be of the greatest help, is to give all the assistance you can to Master Cosimo. Whenever I've no other jobs for you, you can go to him and see what help he may need. Of course he won't admit that he needs any help. But – he has given all his life to my father's service. This will be as hard for him as for any of us."

"I know," said Pippin. "I'll do what I can."

We went in by the side door of the Tower. Although we did not pass the Fountain of the White Tree, I thought of it nonetheless, and of its occupant. As we climbed the stairs, I continued, "And there's another thing that you can do. It may not be very easy. But – when you get the chance, I'd be very glad if you would spend time with Svip. Talk with him about all of this, if you can. He's not used to facing people's deaths. I'll talk with him, too – but I think I will need all the help in this that I can get."

"I don't know what I can say to him," the Hobbit answered grimly. "But I'll try."

At the door to the office, the guards saluted and then earnestly offered their condolences. Once inside the familiar, sparsely furnished chamber, I swallowed, looked about me and said, "I've got my first order for you already, Pippin. Go back to the King's House and have the servants bring an armchair over here. If I spend long in these chairs, I'll be too sore to ever get any work done."

Pippin obediently sped upon his errand. And for the first time since I had wakened at the Orc's Head, I was left alone.

I walked over to my father's desk. It was, as usual, inhumanly neat. One by one I unrolled each document in the tidy stack of furled parchments. Again I felt a lump rise in my throat, brought on this time by the sheer _ordinariness_ of those documents. There were reports of mine among them, and from other officers, on the progress of the work at Osgiliath, and a few days' reports from the officers of the patrols. I sighed as I thought that these documents, so bland and everyday and like a million other documents that must have crossed his desk over the years, had been sitting here while the Man whose desk this was, was killed.

_It is not right_, I thought. _It is not right for anything to be this normal. Nothing should be ordinary; nothing should be the same, because my father is dead_.

I suddenly thought that I did not know what to do now.

I thought, _I feel just like Pippin – wondering what I am supposed to do. Only Pippin, lucky fellow, still has people to answer that question for him. Who is going to tell _me _what to do?_

_If you had any sense,_ I growled at myself, _you would go to your bed_. _Your father's desk – _your_ desk – is scarcely buckling under the work that is waiting for you to tend to it. You'll have work enough, all too soon. Why don't you, for once, make the Healers and the servants and all your friends happy? Lie down and take it easy for a day, instead of running about seeking work to do on top of sword cuts, arrow wounds, and a couple of broken ribs!_

I'd thought I should make some gesture to show that indeed I had accepted I was Steward, that I was ready to take on my responsibilities. I'd thought I could show that by going to the Steward's office, rather than to the chambers or townhouse of the Steward's Heir.

I had chosen to go to the office in the Tower, rather than my father's chambers in the King's House. I'd thought that this room might be less overwhelming with the sense of his presence. But it was a foolish thought. How could I have hoped not to think of him with everything I saw in this room, when this was first time I'd set foot beyond this threshold without him being here as well?

As I looked about, I told myself that one thing at least would have to change if I hoped to spend any time in here at all. I would never be able to sit at the desk where it was now without feeling that I was pretending to be my father. If the desk were over by the window, I thought it might be change enough. Perhaps then this would seem no longer quite the same room that my father had occupied.

I gave the desk a first shove, then immediately stopped. My chest burned as my ribs twinged in protest. I took a shaky breath and decided, _Moving__ the desk can wait for the servants to do it. _I walked to the window, opened it, and stood gazing out at the roofs of the City and the astonishing blue sky.

I wished with all my heart that Faramir were home. I wished that I could tell him how lost I felt, how much I longed just to run somewhere and hide. I wanted to tell Faramir how much I wished that our father were here, and how terribly I feared that I could never take his place.

Before long Pippin and three servants from the King's House arrived. Two of them bore a large and luxuriantly stuffed armchair, while Pippin and the third carried several satchels filled with documents. Pippin reported that the documents came with Master Cosimo's compliments, and were all the documents that been out around my father's chambers.

Pippin added, "Master Cosimo asks if you want your father's filing cabinet moved over here, too. He didn't want to take the decision on his own, since they weren't exactly papers that your father had out. But he said he thought you'd want to see those files sometime soon."

"Yes," I said wearily, managing to restrain a shudder. "Cosimo's right, of course. You can let him know to send the files over today. Then, will you place yourself at Cosimo's disposal for the rest of the day, Pippin? I'll need to get stuck into these papers sometime; I'm afraid I'll not be very good company."

The servants arranged desk and chair by the window at my direction. Then they and Pippin departed. The Hobbit cast me a smile of sympathy and apology, that told that he would help me if only he knew how.

When they had gone, I sat at the desk. The satchels sat before me like monstrous toads crouching on the desk. I glared at them for a moment, then I sighed, sat up straighter, and began to read and sort through the satchels' contents.

Though I made reasonable progress in this task, it was with no enthusiasm, and my gaze kept straying to the window and the sky. Thus it was that I was staring blankly out the window, when I encountered a sight that seemed something out of legend or dream.

I heard it, at the first – a distant bird's cry, but different, it seemed, from those of the birds that typically frequent the White City.

I was beginning to think I had imagined it. Then the cry came again, and with it a sudden sight: a great bird, with vast wings outstretched, that soared past the window and in an instant was gone.

I frowned, trying to determine what it was I had seen. An eagle, it had looked like, but never had I seen nor heard tell of any eagles in the environs of Minas Tirith. I had seen eagles a few times wheeling over the White Mountains, but that had been far to the west of the City, in the vicinity of Calenhad and Halifirien.

Before long the bird appeared again. It was at some distance from the Tower, flying probably over the Sixth Level. I had been watching for it, and this time I was certain of what I had seen. It was an eagle, beyond all doubt, and from the direction of its flight I thought it was likely circling the City.

One time more the eagle appeared: far closer this time, close enough to the opened window that for a brief instant I saw the bright gleam of its eye, and the individual feathers shining upon its wings. The eagle soared upward out of my sight, and I saw and heard it no more.

I heard it no more, but I was to hear news aplenty concerning it.

Húrin Keeper of the Keys came to the office in the late afternoon, to report to me on the investigations into our earthquake. That report was swiftly given: no damage from the earthquake had been discovered in the City, the Rammas or Osgiliath. Of the mysterious eagle, however, Húrin had a good deal more to say.

He asked if I had seen the eagle. When I stated that I had, the Lord of the Keys went on with reluctant and awkward mien, "And … did you hear it sing?"

"Sing?" I repeated. "I heard it cry, if that is what you mean. I'm not certain that I would describe it as singing."

Lord Húrin gave a harassed-looking scowl. "There are stories going around the City, My Lord. A few people are saying that they heard the eagle sing, in words – though there is no agreement on what language the bird used, for some are saying it was the Common Tongue, and some are saying it was Sindarin."

"And?" I prompted, when Húrin looked reluctant to go on. "Is there any agreement on the content of his words?"

"Some, My Lord. All versions of the tale seem thus far to agree that the eagle called upon our people to rejoice, saying that the Dark Lord is defeated. One quoted its words as 'Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor, for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever, and the Dark Tower is thrown down.'"

_The Dark Tower is thrown down._

I thought again of the earthquake, and the wave of darkness we had seen above the Mountain of Fire. I thought also of Merry's whispered words, _The Ring. Maybe it's the Ring._

And I thought of that amazing blue sky above the wastes of Mordor: a sight that never in my life had I seen before this day.

_May it be true,_ I thought suddenly. _Please, O Valar, please let it be true!_

Another thought came to me then, of Mithrandir's tale he had related at Lord Elrond's council, that a Lord of the Great Eagles had come to him at Isengard and rescued him from Saruman's clutches.

_That could explain this,_ I thought. It was not impossible for me to believe that the Grey Pilgrim had sent that same Eagle Lord or one of his fellows, to bring to us news of victory.

"There is more?" I asked Húrin then. I did not think that Lord Húrin would be scowling so, if the Dark Tower's destruction were the only import of the eagle's words.

"Aye. A few have reported that the eagle called on us to rejoice for our King had won a victory, and he would come again and dwell among us."

I said, "I see."

I sympathised with Húrin's frown. But at the same time I could not bring myself to be overly concerned at the bird messenger's prediction, if prediction indeed it was. It was hardly new tidings that we might have to contend with Aragorn pressing his claim to the throne. And I thought that I would rather by far hear of victory to him than of defeat, for defeat to Aragorn would likely mean defeat to the rest of our Men.

"A few, you say," I asked. "How many reports have come of this eagle's song?"

"It is difficult to say for certain. It is one of those things for which folk are more willing to say that a relation or a neighbour or a friend of their cousin heard it, than to bear witness to it themselves. Certainly more tidings have come to me of the call to rejoice, than of the portion concerning the King. One who has stated he heard the bird sing of the King's return is a boy, the ten-year-old son of Beregond of the Citadel Guard. Another is one of the Assistants at the Houses of Healing – and Dame Ioreth of the Houses, it appears, is repeating the girl's story to all who will stand still long enough to let her tell it to them."

"Aye, that is no surprise," I said, smiling ruefully at Húrin's sour expression. "Soon the good Dame will be saying that she heard the eagle's tidings herself, and it will have serenaded her at her window, telling her the King's plans and complete itinerary, in half a dozen verses."

Húrin snorted. "Bloody bird," he went on, with a sudden bitter vehemence. "I would I could teach it to mind its own business. Let it fly over the City again; we'll see if it sings so well with an arrow lodged in its throat."

"My friend," I sighed. "I know that you are joking. But you must know, this is no matter on which to jest. If the eagle did come to us as a messenger, then its life is sacred. And if was sent to us by our allies, then it is a friend to Gondor and we must treat it as such."

"I know it, My Lord," Húrin muttered. "I know."

I gave the Lord of the Keys permission to take his leave, with the request that he keep me informed on further reports of the eagle's message. As he walked to the door, Húrin turned again suddenly and asked, "My Lord – do you believe it can be true? That the Dark Lord has fallen?"

"I believe there's a good chance of it," I told him. "I believe there is a very good chance indeed."

He bowed to me, with a faint and uncertain smile, and departed with the appearance of a Man attempting to determine if his world has in fact turned itself upside down.

As I sat there and stared at the blue sky, I thought that I knew precisely what Húrin must be feeling. And another thought came to me, that made me clench my fists and bow my head in sorrow and rage.

_Why,_ I demanded, _why, if the Ring and the Dark Lord have indeed been destroyed, could it not have come to pass just a few days earlier?_

_Why could they not have fallen before they lured my father from his City? Why could their fate not have seized them before my father died?_

As evening drew in, I returned to my townhouse, to be greeted in subdued fashion by the people of my household. All had donned black armbands with the White Tree embroidered upon them, and the eyes of many were red with tears. I requested that a light day-meal be sent to my chambers, and told young Balamir that I would not require his further attendance that night. The boy bowed and hastened from the room, to nearly collide in the doorway with his uncle Gavrilo, who had been about to knock upon the door.

I should, it transpired, have told Balamir to remain a while longer. I bit my lip at the pain from my broken ribs, as I sat down and essayed to pull off my boots. Without comment, Gavrilo knelt to take my esquire's place in helping me remove the boots. As he did so he told me, in careful, expressionless tones, that Balamir's sister Bettris had reported hearing the eagle's song.

I asked, as Gavrilo set my boots aside, "Did she mention the eagle singing of the King?"

"Aye, My Lord," my seneschal answered, although from his grim expression he would far rather not have answered. "She said that she heard it sing, 'your King shall come again, and he shall dwell among you all the days of your life.' My Lord," he went on, with some vigour, "Bettris is young and imaginative, but I have never had cause to suspect her of any untruth. She is telling the truth of what she believes she heard, at the least; of that much I am certain."

"I know," I told him, "I do not doubt her. Very well. Thank you for telling me."

When the morrow came, I heard of the eagle again.

In the pre-dawn mist, I went to the Fountain of the Tree, where I found Svip huddled down in the water, awake and waiting for me. He vouchsafed scarcely more than one-word replies to my attempts at conversation, while we made our way to the Great River.

I felt awkward to say the least, seeing the River again for the first time since Anduin itself had apparently taken a hand in carrying me to the western shore. Svip and I had not spoken yet of anything I should do to thank the River. So for that morning, I only greeted Anduin aloud when I stood upon the Harlond docks, bowed to it and expressed my thanks for the Great River's aid.

My swim that day took more the form of a soak, for my ribs were in no state to allow for comfortable swimming. Svip took a quick lap across the River and back. Then, sitting beside me on our usual steps, he asked suddenly, "Did you see the eagle?"

"Yes, I did," I replied, "but I did not hear it sing. Did you hear it?"

"Well, yes, a little," he said with reluctance, his eyes dropping furtively from mine. "Or, I thought that I did."

"What did you hear it say?"

"Only that the Black Gate is broken, and the Dark Tower has fallen. That's all."

I did not press him further, but I had very little doubt that he was lying in the hope of protecting my feelings. He would have had no cause to speak so if he did not have something to hide from me. And that something, I thought, was likely that he had heard the bird sing of the promised return of our King.

Svip went back to sit in the Fountain. I went back to the office in the Tower, there to begin making inroads on the contents of the glass-fronted, cherrywood bookcase that held my father's current files: shelf upon shelf of precisely ordered and labelled leathern folders.

Pippin had been waiting for me, seated patiently on a stool outside the office door. The Hobbit, it seemed, was one of the few in Minas Tirith who had neither seen nor heard our fabled eagle messenger. He told me that he had been helping Master Cosimo take inventory in the Lord Denethor's chambers, and had missed out on the miraculous visit entirely. But, Pippin went on, Merry said that he and the Lady Éowyn both had seen it – although Merry could not make head nor tail of why he had heard the eagle sing of victory, while the lady said she had heard from it no words at all.

"It's a strange thing, isn't it," Pippin observed, frowning in thought, "that one should hear it singing words, and another standing right next to him shouldn't hear a thing. But I guess we ought to be used to strange things by now."

"Perhaps you can soon ask Gandalf about it," I suggested. "If the eagle's message is true, then there's hope that we may soon see our friends return to the City in triumph."

The Hobbit nodded, but trouble darkened his gaze. "Will we see all of them, do you think?" he whispered. "Do you think there's – do you think there's any chance of Frodo and Sam coming back too?"

I wished I could answer with more certainty. But I told him, "Yes. I think there's a chance. Gandalf and the rest of our fellowship must have been there, at the Black Gate or even in Mordor itself, when it happened. They would never leave without Frodo and Sam, not while there was any hope that they could find them and bring them home."

"No," Pippin agreed, in quiet, sorrowing tones, "not while there was any hope."

I sent Pippin then to see if he could be of any assistance to either Master Cosimo or Svip. Thus he was not there to see my thoroughly mixed reactions, when I opened one of first folders on the top shelf of my father's cabinet.

I had been more than a little wary of the folder's contents before I opened it, for the file was labelled "Boromir".

On one side of the folder were reports and letters from me; on the other, documents about me. My father, I knew, had typically kept in his chambers only those documents that dated to the current year. The older files, with each new year, were moved to a room in the Steward's Library. But with his file on me, for this year at least, it seemed that he had made an exception.

In the left-hand side of the folder, in order by date, was each letter or dispatch that I had sent to him in 3018, until July and my departure for Imladris. Above my last letter from 3018 were two from this year – the letter I had sent from Cair Andros, and my scribbled note imploring reinforcements for the evacuation of Waterfront.

In the right of the folder I found an unexpected assortment of documents. There was a letter from Théoden King, dated to November of 3018. This letter told of my visit to Edoras in July, the subsequent riderless return of the horse that Théoden had lent to me, and the lack of any further news regarding me. To my utter surprise, there was also a letter of around the same date from Saruman, courteously expressing his concern that I had gone missing and his regret at being unable to oblige my father with any tidings of me. There were letters from the commanders of our border stations, all of them dating from December and January, regretfully reporting that no rumour of my whereabouts had reached them. And there was then a slew of urgent dispatches from many of the same border Captains, all dated to the end of February, telling that their Men had heard the Horn of Gondor, but that there had been no sight of me.

The other documents in the file were of a very different sort. Most were letters from my father's agents throughout Rohan and the southlands, dating from the first half of 3018, and they reported on the qualifications or lack thereof of various young ladies considered as candidates to become my bride.

Torn between laughing and crying, I flipped through these reports. Lady So-and-so was a good dancer, but had a rather shrill laugh. Lady Such-and-such was not recommended, for there were doubts about her chastity. One lady was of a fragile constitution, and might not be expected to bear healthy children; another, it was suggested, might be slightly too healthy, and inclined somewhat to overweight.

With these letters was a list, penned by Master Cosimo, of fourteen tentatively approved candidates. I did not bother to compare the list with the letters, to see which of the multitude of maidens had made it through the first cut. But one name, near the bottom of the list, caught my eye.

It was the name of Lady Éowyn Daughter of Éomund. And next to her name, in my father's crisp and orderly handwriting, was the following note: "B. seems to like her. Spoke with enthusiasm supporting her request for military service."

Shaking my head and thinking, _Father, I wish that I could have some words with you about this, _I closed the folder.

I went to the bookcase, to return my file to its place on the shelf. On an impulse then, and more than half certain that I would regret doing this, I skimmed through the folders' labels until I found the file for Faramir.

The folder was all-but empty. In its left-hand side were the letters and reports that Faramir had sent to our father in January and February of this year. And there was nothing more.

I sighed. Carefully I closed Faramir's file and returned it to its place.

That afternoon, I had a visit from Lord Húrin and Master Pelendur. They brought word from the embalmers that their work with my father's body was complete, and that the body now lay in state in its place in the House of the Stewards. Looking apologetic that he must ask me to think of this, Húrin inquired, "Have you instructions to give to us yet, My Lord, regarding arrangements for your Lord father's funeral?"

"Not as yet," I said. "We will wait until there has been time for Lord Faramir and our troops to return to the City. I would not have the funeral take place without my brother being present, if it can at all be avoided." I thought a moment longer, then continued, "I will go to the House of the Stewards to pay my respects. Then let it be announced that Fen Hollen and the House of the Stewards will be open to any of our people who wish to pay their respects to the Lord Denethor. Let a detachment from the Guards of the Citadel be posted as an honour guard in the House of the Stewards, day and night until such time as the funeral has been held."

Belatedly I recalled that the body of Théoden King yet lay in state in the House of the Stewards, and that one of their Riders still stood guard for their fallen King. I amended, "Húrin, offer to Elfhelm the Marshal that the Rohirrim may have equal representation among the guard; work with him to implement that, if he agrees."

"Aye, My Lord," said the Lord of the Keys.

Húrin and Pelendur both had looked surprised at my order to open the Closed Door. But they had recovered swiftly, and I could see no sign that they disapproved of my decision.

Never, I am sure, had any of us heard of the Silent Street being opened to any save the Tenders of the Tombs or the Steward and his nearest relations. But there would be many of our people who had not been in the City when we brought my father's body home. I told myself that I would not deny any who wished it their chance to bid Lord Denethor farewell.

And now I had to say goodbye to him, myself.

Húrin and Pelendur departed, leaving me to ask myself why I sat there instead of going to him without delay.

Logically I knew that my delay had no excuse. I told myself, _I must do this_. But my heart sank dismally at the thought.

I eyed the bookcase and thought, _Perhaps__ another few files, first? Just to the end of the second shelf?_

Little though I joyed in the task, continued slogging through the cabinet of his files seemed preferable to what I had now to face.

It startled me to realise how much I dreaded to do this.

_You are behaving like a fool,_ I argued with myself. _You have looked upon his body already, and the sight did not strike you down. _

_Would you not rather see him now, alone, and bid what farewells you will with no other eyes upon you? Or would you rather leave it until the funeral, when you will stand in the gaze of hundreds?_

With a leaden sluggishness that owed little to my injuries, I left the office that had been my father's and made my way down the White Tower's stairs.

In the Court of the Fountain, Svip sat in what was rapidly becoming his usual post. He crouched beneath the Fountain's cascade like a gigantic frog, with only his head showing above the surface of the water. His dark eyes watched me, steady and as unreadable as my father's gaze had been.

Of a sudden, the prospect of company seemed better by far than a solitary walk to the Mansions of the Dead.

_After all,_ I argued, _you have to think of Svip. You cannot leave him to sit here in the Fountain forever. _

_He has lost your father, too. He should have the chance to say goodbye to him, as well._

_So this is for Svip's sake?_ my thoughts mocked me. _And here I thought it was only that you fear to face your father alone. _

"Svip," I said, "I've just had word that my father's body has been prepared, and is lying in state in the House of the Stewards. I – am going to pay my respects. I'd be honoured if you would come with me – if you wish it."

For a moment longer Svip did not move nor speak. Then he paddled to the Fountain's edge. There he stopped, and he asked, "Should I?"

"You do not have to," I hastened to tell him. "It is only if you wish. It is … a custom, among Men. Though the person's spirit is gone, it is customary to show the respect and love we felt for them, by saying farewell to the body that was theirs. You don't have to come if you don't want to; it's all right."

"No," he said, leaping suddenly from the water and onto the wall of the Fountain. "No, I'll go with you. If you're sure that's all right."

So my diminutive friend walked at my side, water dripping from off his black and silver uniform tunic, through the Seventh Level to Fen Hollen and the Silent Street.

It was another beautiful day. The sky was again a pure blue unmarked by clouds, and it seemed that all the birds in the City were singing – although this time, there were no eagles. There in the Hallows the birdsong was the only sound, save for my booted footfalls on the cobbles and the slap of Svip's bare feet beside me.

As we followed the winding Road of Stairs down to Rath Dínen, I started speaking quietly to Svip. I told him of the history of the Hallows, and of the Kings and Stewards whose bodies lay here in the Mansions of the Dead.

We had reached the Silent Street and were nearing the House of the Stewards itself, when Svip's pace began to slow. Finally he stopped, gazing in trepidation up the broad marble steps and to the dark, open door beyond.

"What would have happened," Svip whispered, "if we weren't able to bring your father's body home? Would that be … bad? Would it hurt him?"

"Hurt him?" I repeated. "I … I don't know. Not for certain. There are stories that if a person's body is not tended properly, their spirit may not move on from this Middle Earth. But I don't know if it's true. There are stories, too, of those whose souls do not move on even though their bodies _are_ tended properly." I shook my head. "I don't know how much it matters, really, to the dead. Or if it only really matters to those of us who are still alive."

He gazed up at me with trouble in his eyes, whispering, "What would have happened to you if I hadn't found you? If you'd stayed in the River … do you think it would have mattered to you that your body wasn't here?"

I swallowed, and had to say again, "I don't know, Svip. I suppose … I would rather my body lie here, with my family, even if I myself might not know of it. I would rather my body be here, so that … so that people would feel there was somewhere they could go to talk to me, if they wished to. Even if I might not truly be here to hear them."

My words ran down, and I cursed in my mind the ineptitude of my speech. I wished I could think of some way to explain this to Svip that did not make it sound like merely the arbitrary habits and superstitions of Men.

_But perhaps, _I thought, _perhaps that is what it is._

Svip gazed up the steps once more. I said to him, "Svip, you do not have to do this."

"No," he said. "No, I want to." But the tone of his voice was none too certain.

"All right," I said finally. Together, we climbed the stairs.

To the left of the door stood a warrior of Rohan; to the right, one of the Citadel Guard. Both bowed in salute as we approached, and Svip and I walked side by side into the silent hall.

I winced at the inappropriateness of the thought that came to me then, as we stood within the door: that the bodies of my father and my father-in-law had played a macabre game of musical chairs. To the far left of the row of stone tables that for the most part stood empty, where Théoden King had lain when first they bore him from the field of battle, lay now the Lord Steward Denethor II. And on the next table beside his – the table that one day would be mine – lay Théoden King of Rohan.

The fallen rulers were shrouded in a curtain of drifting dust-motes, illumined in the sunlight from the high, distant windows. The sun gleamed as well upon the cloth of gold that draped Théoden's form, on the silver Tree of Gondor that blazoned my father's tunic, on the wax-pale faces of both Men, alike now in their majesty and their silence.

Yet they were not alike, I thought as I walked closer. Théoden's face still bore the gentleness and peace that I had seen upon it, that night when I stood vigil with Éomer and his sword-thains. But I saw no such peace upon my father's face.

Even with his eyes shut in seeming sleep, it seemed to me that his face held again some of his vigour and his pride. It seemed, I thought, as though he disdained to be lying there; as though if he could, he would scornfully brush aside the suggestion that death should have any hold on him. He would demand to know why I was standing there like a fool, and he would climb down from that table of stone and stride to his office, impatient to get back to work.

I paused where Théoden lay and bowed to him. Then I turned to face my father. I knelt on the upraised step that surrounded the base of the table. Svip, following me, did the same.

I gazed at my father's face. At first I had no thought in my mind. Then, slowly, I felt anger and grief creep over me, at the wretched irony that my father's life had been stolen from him not even two full days before our Enemy himself would fall.

_It cannot be true,_ I thought. _It is not right. I will not allow it to be true._

_Which of the Valar is it who holds such hate for my father? How could they allow him to die, not two days before he could have seen the victory of all he fought to save?_

_I wish that you could see it, sir,_ I thought to him. _I wish you could see the sky. I wish you could see what it looks like when there is no fire in the sky of Mordor._

I thought of the purported song of the eagle lord, his call to rejoice at the coming of our King. I thought of it, and my heart twisted in rage at the thought that our claimant King might even now be riding home in victory, while my father lay here in dust and silence.

_You would have no victory, Aragorn, _I thought, _were it not for the victories my father has won – my father and his longfathers before him._

_There would be no country to which you could return, if my father had not spent his life fighting back the wolves from Gondor's doors._

_You have won, and we are to rejoice and sing. And what of the Man who made your victory possible? Are we to think nothing of him, while we sing for you?_

My rage faded again, into the sorrow of realizing all that my father would never see.

_Father, _I thought, _I want to stand with you on the White Tower and look out over the Pelennor, and Anduin, and Ithilien, and Mordor. I want to stand with you there and know that our Enemy is fallen. I want you to see what it looks like, to see how beautiful our country is when there is only sun above us, when the fire of doom has gone out of the sky. _

There were tears on my face as I whispered, "I miss you, sir. I wish – oh gods, sir, I wish that you were here."

I wept then, with no thought of holding it back. I could not have held it back had I tried. I wept as I knelt there by my father's tomb, and the dust and the sunlight and the proud, fierce lines of my father's face blurred and vanished from before my eyes as I sobbed.

I do not know how long it was before my sobbing stopped. I remember finally putting my hands to my face, and willing myself into some kind of peace, and silence. I rubbed the tears from my face and shoved aside my hair that was wet now from my tears.

Svip was gone. I had no idea when he had left, but I certainly could not blame him for fleeing. I thought, _I am so sorry, Svip, _as I stood up unsteadily and gazed around the silent hall.

I told myself that I should go after him. I needed to find him and apologise for bringing him here, when I should have known that I was in no state of mind worthy of company.

But there were other things that I should also do; other visits I should make while I was here.

I crossed to the enclosed tombs set into the wall of the hall, nearby to where my father lay.

I had no need of reading the inscriptions, to tell me whose were the three crypts nearest to my father.

The first along the wall was that of Faramir's Éoflæd. The next belonged to Théodhild and our son. And the third, with the swan of Belfalas sculpted in relief upon it, was the tomb of the Princess Finduilas of Dol Amroth, my mother.

I bowed before Éoflæd's tomb. At Théodhild and Findemir's, I paused longer, touching my hand to my lips and then to Théodhild's carven name. At my mother's tomb I did the same, and as I had done times beyond count, I ran my hand over the graceful form of the Belfalas swan.

Then I walked onward, turning my steps to the next row of marble tables and the bodies of the Stewards of Gondor lying upon them. I could not remember what the last occasion had been on which I had walked past each of my longfathers here, gazing into the face of each of them in turn.

In my childhood, I had visited here often. My father and my tutor both had brought me here, to memorize the reign list of the Stewards and learn the faces that went with my ancestors' names. Several times I had walked here with my father, as he spoke to me of the challenges faced by various of our predecessors. As we walked, he would debate with me upon the questions of whether they had chosen rightly, and on how I thought that I would have chosen had their challenges been mine.

Then as a youth, I had visited by myself. With my brain stuffed with romantic ideals and with glorious dreams for the future, I had wandered here among my ancestors, seeking inspiration from them that I might worthily follow in their footsteps.

I walked along their silent ranks again now. At my grandfather's place I briefly paused, and murmured to him, "Hello, sir." There were others among them by whom I paused as well, as I had done many times before in my youthful pilgrimages. I paused by Thorondir, my eyes as always going to the long, raised scar along his cheek and jaw, from a sword wound received decades before the battle in which he fell. I paused by Beren and by Beregond, struck again as I had always been by how closely Beregond's face resembled that of my brother. I paused by he who had probably fascinated me the most in those long-ago visits to my ancestors: my namesake, the Steward Boromir Son of Denethor I.

I wondered how many hours, years ago, I had spent in staring at this dead warrior's face; at the marks left by years of pain which no Healer had been able to cure, and no embalmer had been able to erase. I gazed again now at his hair gone prematurely grey, the sunken hollows of his cheeks, the shadows of darkness beneath his eyes. I saw again the frown he now wore for eternity, and that I had imagined had never left his face in those years before he died: brow furrowed as if in impatience at his body's weakness, lips pressed grimly together that he might hold back any complaint at his unceasing pain.

I looked at him and I thought of the debate my father and I had held here beside his corpse: whether or not Steward Boromir had chosen rightly in retaining the Stewardship, in the years after he received his Morgul-wound.

There was no easy answer to it, as was of course the reason why my father had chosen that question. I remembered clearly the essay I had written comparing the actions and events of Boromir's reign before his wounding and after it, and the actions of Cirion his son. I had come at last to the conclusion that Boromir would have done well to step aside when it grew clear that his wound could never heal, rather than clinging to the Stewardship through agony that it seemed had indeed impaired his ability to rule.

So my essay had tentatively concluded. But I had admitted both in the essay and in the subsequent discussion with my father that I could see why he had not done so – and that I was not certain, in his place, if I could have done so myself.

I looked now into the face of my namesake who died almost five hundred years before I was born. And a thought hit me – cold and piercing and so obvious that I wondered why I had not seen it clearly before.

I thought, _I cannot do it.__ I cannot be Steward of Gondor._

This time it was no self-doubting panic, no dread that I would fail to live up to my father. This time it was a simple fact.

I accepted it so swiftly, I thought that at some level of my mind I must already have known the truth.

I had known it, I thought, since before my father died. Perhaps I had even known it before I returned home from my journey to Imladris and Amon Hen.

_I cannot be the Steward of Gondor._

I thought again of my utter incapacity three nights ago, when I fought to convince my father to return to the City, and collapsed near death for no other reason than that I was ten miles from the River.

_What kind of Steward would you be_, I demanded of myself, _who can go to nowhere in his country save a tiny corridor along the River?_ _How is it doing your duty, fulfilling your responsibilities to Gondor, to give them a Steward whose life hangs by so fragile a thread, and who can never go forth with his troops to battle save only if the battleground lies fewer than ten miles from the riverbank?_

_It is Gondor of which you are to be Steward, not merely Anduin or Minas Tirith. Your people need a Steward in health and strength, and one who can go wherever they need for him to be._

I remembered what I had written in my essay and had said to the Lord my father. I had said that I did not know if, in that other Boromir's place, I could have put aside the White Rod of the Steward, even though it meant giving it into the hand of one who was better fitted to rule.

But, I thought, I knew that answer now. I could do it, and by all the gods, I would.

I did not stay to walk past the earliest rows of my ancestors. I bowed to the body of Boromir Son of Denethor I, then I turned and hastened from the House of the Stewards, pausing only to bow once more to my father.

I nearly ran the route from the Hallows back to the White Tower; a combination of decorum and the niggling pain from my ribs succeeded in keeping my pace just under a run.

At the courtyard I checked and found that Svip was back in his place in the Fountain. He turned his head toward me when I hurried into the courtyard. Then quickly he turned away again, and settled himself deeper down into the water.

_I have to speak with him_, I told myself. But, my mind argued, this other duty was the one that I had to perform first.

I had to do it, before I had the leisure to talk myself out of it. I had to set down my decision upon paper, before my resolution and my courage could ebb away.

As I hastened up the steps to the office, I heard light footsteps and turned to see Pippin running up the stairs behind me.

"Do you need anything?" the Hobbit asked breathlessly, skidding to a halt. "Is there anything I can do?" He saw then the look on my face, and frowned in concern. "Boromir – has something new happened? What is it? What can I do?"

"It's all right, Pippin," I told him, striving to keep my voice calm. "I'm all right. I won't need anything for the rest of the day. Perhaps you can go to see Svip – "

My young friend looked rather queasy at that suggestion, and I backtracked at once.

"No, no, you don't need to. I have to speak with him myself. You have leave until tomorrow, anyway. Maybe you can go see if there's anything Merry's working on that you can help with. Or, whatever you want to do."

"All right," Pippin said unhappily. "Good night, Boromir."

"Good night."

I walked into the office, shutting the door behind me and then for a moment walking no farther into that room.

_Faramir__ will be furious with me_, I thought. _Faramir__ will tell me that I am doing this out of fear; out of fear of failure and in my grief for our father._

_I can convince Faramir. I can win this argument with him, for this time, by the gods, I am right._

I strode to the desk, found pen, ink and paper and grimly sat down to my task.

For a moment more I hesitated. Then I wrote, with a speed as though the words had always been there in my mind.

_"I, Boromir, Steward of Gondor by right of blood succession from my father the Steward Denethor the Second, in sound mind and after full and careful consideration …"_

That last point, I admitted, was hardly true; but I told myself that I _would_ think the same as I did now after full and careful consideration of it.

"_Desiring only to act as is needful for the strength and welfare of our country, I do hereby declare as follows:_

_"In that I have contracted a condition which renders me dependent for my continued life upon the waters of the River Anduin, and through which I am incapable of travelling from the River's vicinity except on pain of death; and in that I have no prospect of recovering from this condition;_

_"So therefore I have come to the conclusion that I am unable by reason of my health to be the Steward that Gondor requires._

_"Therefore I do hereby resign the Stewardship of Gondor, giving the White Rod of Office into the hand of my brother the Lord Faramir Son of Denethor, Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, effective immediately upon Lord Faramir's return from the Mordor Campaign._

_"Be it further known that I resign all claim to the Stewardship for myself and my heirs forever, and that rightful succession shall pass without let or hindrance to the line of the Lord Faramir._

_"Written at Minas Tirith this Twenty-Seventh Day of March, in the year of the Third Age 3019._

_"Boromir."_


	23. Chapter Twenty Three: The Steward and Hi...

Hello to all! Well, I didn't manage to get this posted within the three-month launch window this time – but I'm only a little bit over that. Apologies for the wait, and I hope that there are still folk out there wanting to read this …

It is also just over three years now since I started working on this tale. Very hard to believe. Anyway, again, thanks to all who have read and reviewed over the years!

I've revisited the question of how many chapters are left after this one: at the moment, it looks like there are probably four more. No promises, I'm afraid, on how swiftly they'll turn up – but hopefully it will be sooner rather than later!

Cheers to all of you!

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Steward and His Brother

I spent those next days on tenterhooks of suspense. I longed for the days to pass swiftly by, and to bring Faramir home.

Now that I had made my decision, I wished the matter done with as soon as might be.

I was not to be the Steward; on that I was determined. I felt certain that my choice was the right one. But there was yet a tempting mockery in knowing that the place for which I had trained all my life could still be mine.

I had only to keep silent about the decision I had taken. I had only to toss my resignation into the fireplace and go forward as though this incident had never occurred.

I would not do so. My resignation was the proper choice. I believed in that, and I would not waver.

But by all the gods, I wanted it done. I wanted Faramir home, and convinced of the rightness of this choice, and inaugurated as Steward. I wanted it to be over, that the mocking whisper "You can still be the Steward" would fall silent in my mind.

I glanced over my resignation several times, assuring myself that all was in order. Then I locked it in the desk. Sighing and telling myself that I had another charge which I could no longer avoid, I left the office and went to find Svip, in his refuge in the Fountain of the Tree.

I sat on the wall of the Fountain. Svip's eyes were open and he was watching me, but he did not speak. I essayed, "Hello, Svip," and after a lengthy pause he vouchsafed a very quiet "Hello."

I glanced away from him and leaned forward, staring down at my hands. "Svip," I said. "Svip, I am very sorry. I should not have brought you with me to the Tombs. I should have known better; I should have known it was something I should do alone. I am sorry if I frightened you, or caused you any embarrassment. I will make it up to you if I can."

I heard a quiet splashing as he shifted in the water. "No," he said finally, in nearly inaudible tones. "No, it's all right, I don't mind."

I looked back at him then, meeting his unfathomable gaze. I said, "Svip, can you tell me what I can do to help? It is because of me that you're here. I brought you into the world of Men, to face our sorrows. I'm sorry I brought you into this."

"You didn't bring me," he stated truculently. "It was my choice to come."

"But I knew what you were going into. You didn't know."

"I would have gone anyway," Svip argued. "I wanted to see for myself what it was like. I didn't want …" He paused then, for so long a time that I thought he would not go on. Then at last he said, "I didn't want to be alone any more."

I said to him, meaning it with all my heart, "I've been glad to have you with me, Svip. I have been very glad. But I don't want you to be hurt because you're here with me. If there's some way that I can help you, please, tell me how."

He sat in silence for a time, before answering, "I don't know how." Before I could think of something useful to say, he asked me, "How do you do it? All of you – how do you face this over and over again?"

I shook my head, and tried to smile. "There is no one good answer to that," I told him. "Sometimes – sometimes there is no healing for it, save in the passage of time. The grief does not go away. But after a time, it does hurt less – even though at the first, you think that it never will. If you force yourself to go through with your everyday tasks, in time you may find it no longer quite so difficult to think of other things besides your loss."

Svip was studying me. I could not tell if he thought there was any value to my words. Tentatively I suggested, "You might perhaps try going back to your work at the Houses of Healing. You did feel, didn't you, that the work there helped you before? Then it is possible that it might do so again."

The water creature shook his head. "No," he said, "they'll talk to me there. I don't want them talking to me."

I thought of Dame Ioreth of the Houses, and I thought that I could fully sympathise with Svip's feelings. I tried again.

"Perhaps then you could go back to working with Lady Éowyn and the horses? I am certain that Lady Éowyn would not over-burden you with talking. Of a surety she would not, if you asked her not to."

"I don't know," Svip said, frowning. For a long time he paused, before going on in a hushed, miserable tone, "I think maybe I should go home."

His words caught me by surprise. So also did the stab of dismay I felt upon hearing them.

Trying to keep my voice casual, I asked him, "Back to the Falls?"

"Yes," he said. "I think I ought to go."

It must be almost precisely a month, I thought, since Svip and I had met. A month, but it could equally have been years that I had known him and had the honour of his friendship, from the sorrow and loneliness I felt now on hearing him propose to leave.

I swallowed, and said, "You must do what you feel is best. If you feel that you need to go home, then of course you must go. But I will ask you, do not leave yet. We do not yet know enough of the situation in the Marches. We don't know what numbers of the enemy may still be on the move. When the army returns from the Black Gate, they may bring us intelligence of the borderlands, along with more certain knowledge of what has befallen in Mordor. We will be better equipped then to decide how to proceed – whether we must launch an additional campaign in Anorien's borderlands, and whether it is safe for you to journey home."

Svip was frowningly silent, and I persisted. "Promise me that, Svip. Promise me that you will not leave, until we know it is safe for you to do so."

"I could get past them," he said. "They wouldn't catch me. But, all right. I promise."

Our conversation, it seemed, had taken a few steps toward comforting Svip's mind. It was at least enough to let him turn his mind to something else.

He gazed at me keenly, as though trying to answer some question in his thoughts. Then he said, "Something's different. You look – better than you did. As if you don't … hurt quite so much, any more."

I thought on that. Then I nodded. I said, "I suppose that is probably true."

_And there, _I told myself, _is__ your answer; the best thing you can do. _

I should tell Svip of my determination to renounce the Stewardship. If I feared I would waver in my resolution, then the best way to forestall that possibility was to tell my friends of my decision.

There was a chance that my certainty might erode, while I alone knew of my intent. But I knew that I would not permit that to happen, once those for whose opinion I cared knew of my intent.

So I told him of my decision and the reasoning that had led to it.

My friend did not comment on the tale as I spoke. But when I had done, and I glanced at him to judge how he might be reacting, I was surprised to see a tentative smile on his face.

He said, hesitant but hopeful, "That's good, then. If you're not the Steward, then – then you can come live with me."

I was touched and taken aback, and I pondered how best to reply.

"Thank you, Svip," I finally said. "I'm afraid I would not be able to accept your offer. Even though not the Steward, I would still want to work in the service of Gondor."

"But you could visit," he insisted. "You could visit, and stay for a while – every now and then."

"Yes," I agreed, relieved to be able to give him some kind of positive answer. "Yes, I should be able to do that. And it would indeed be much easier for me, than it would be if I were Steward."

There were two requests that I thought I must make of Svip. I asked him to promise me that he would eat regularly, and I asked him to still share with me our morning trips to the River. To both of these he agreed. Then as I sat in silence, wondering what else I should say, Svip said in brusque tones that surprised me, "You don't have to sit here with me. I know you've got a lot of work to do."

I told myself that this was the simple truth; it was ridiculous of me to feel hurt at his words. I stood up and tried for a rueful smile.

"You're right on that one," I said, "I'm afraid that is always true. But you mustn't let that worry you," I went on, 'if you ever want to talk … I will always have the time, Svip. I hope you know that."

"Yes," he said flatly, "I know that."

The next morn upon our return from the River, I betook myself again to the Tower office and sent for Húrin Keeper of the Keys. Continuing my campaign to shore up my resolve, I told Húrin of the decision that I had reached.

The Lord of Keys took the news a good deal less happily than had Svip.

With a thunder-cloud scowl, Húrin struggled not to let himself burst out in protest.

"My Lord," he began, "you know that we will loyally serve Lord Faramir. I know that Lord Faramir will follow worthily in the footsteps of his forebears. And yet – and yet I would not see you renounce your right, My Lord, without the most pressing of cause. You may see such cause; I confess that I do not."

"I do see such cause," I answered. "Nothing must stand in the way of Gondor having the Steward who will serve her interests best. With this condition that has come upon me, Faramir is the Man to do that."

The debate in his thoughts was clearly visible upon his face. "And do you not think then, My Lord," he ventured, "that you were brought back from death for a purpose, to take as you were destined the office of your longfathers?"

"I may indeed have been brought back for a purpose. But that purpose was to fight for Gondor, not to become her Steward."

It was something of a surprise for me to realise, as I spoke those words, how strongly I believed that they were true.

Lord Húrin offered no more argument. We agreed to take no steps as yet in the procedures that must accompany the accession of a Steward: the minting of new coins, the scheduling of the new reign's first Council session, the scheduling and planning of the ceremony of investiture.

Throughout our discussion Húrin staunchly held himself back from further stating his opinions. But as the conversation closed, he blurted, "My Lord, I would never wish for ill to befall Lord Faramir. I wish him back with us, in all safety and health. I will follow him with all my heart. Yet with all my heart do I wish it could be you whom we are to follow."

"I thank you, Húrin," I told him firmly, clasping his hand. "That is not the path that the Valar chose for us."

Paradoxically, I threw myself into my work with more vigour now that I knew I was not to be the Steward, than when I had not yet questioned my succession.

I began with one tangible and reachable goal: to finish reading through the bookcase-worth of our father's files, so I could be of use in advising Faramir on their contents, if he wished it. I made my way through the files at a prodigious rate, and completed them before the day was through. When I had been reading them in preparation for my own Stewardship, it had been all I could do to make myself slog through one shelf.

With that duty firmly behind me, I turned my attention to the ongoing clean-up and reconstruction efforts.

When our people could again return to their homes, many in the Pelennor, Anorien and some also in Minas Tirith would find those homes destroyed. In Minas Tirith, our Men had cleared away all dangerous debris of the buildings that had burned on the First Level. Now we looked to take that work further.

I set a combined force of City Guardsmen and secretaries of the Steward's Household to investigating and documenting all buildings in the City and the Pelennor that had been damaged in the Enemy's assault.

A detachment of this force I set to exploring what alternate housing might be available. Armed with writing desks and bulging satchels of land-holding records, they sallied out to inspect all the houses of Minas Tirith that had been left empty in these last centuries of our population's dwindling numbers.

A few of the buildings had suffered damage through time. But the majority were still sound, hewn as they were of the stone of the White Mountains, and built, or so at least I believed, with skill of which even Dwarven craftsmen could well be proud.

The clerks noted down such repairs as would be needed. Further pursuit of that must wait until a future session of the Council, when I could propose these plans and request that we open of negotiations for the work with the Builders and Stonemasons' Guild.

I thought there should be little difficulty in gaining approval for the work in the White City. But I had another scheme that was like to prove far more challenging to sell: the restoration of Osgiliath.

My thoughts in those days turned frequently to the last ill-fated ride with my father, and our conversation on means by which Gondor's ancient capital might be restored. I thought of my father's suggestion for succouring those left homeless by the fighting and at the same time promoting our people's return to Osgiliath: to offer housing, free of charge, to any who would agree to make their home in the ancient city.

If we wished to offer better housing than tents pitched within the ruins, there was work aplenty to be done: the work of years. I was under no illusion that the Council would leap at these proposals. Yet there was more chance of eventual success if the preparatory work were already well in hand – whether, in the end, I proposed these efforts to Council and Steward, or to Council, Steward and King.

In this campaign I assigned a mission to Pippin and a large detachment of the Steward's secretaries: to search the Library of the Stewards and collect every document that touched upon the construction of Osgiliath.

A few of these documents I had studied before, on previous occasions when I'd hoped to pursue my dreams of restoring our ancient capital. This time I ordered that every last document be assembled. Pippin and his cohorts ventured far into the library's depths, to the distant, out-of-the-way shelves that would have been shrouded in the dust of ages, if my father had been the sort of Man to permit dust to linger anywhere in his household.

By the end of the search, several tables in the Stewards' Library lay hidden beneath their findings. We had the original builders' plans for the layout of the city, accounts of the quarrying and transport of the building-stones, logs and payment records from the years of construction. There were plans of the city's complex of waterworks, the three great Anduin bridges, the city walls, and the Dome of the Stars. There were maps from later years that identified each building by owner, function and name. And there were centuries-worth of correspondence between Kings and Stewards of Gondor and their captains and builders, on each wave of disaster that shook the city – and on the lingering but seldom-pursued dream that Osgiliath might rise in glory once more.

The most of these documents were so ancient and fragile that the Chief Librarian would not permit of their being carried beyond the library's walls. So our draughtsmen set about copying a selection of the maps and plans. With these copies in hand, I enthusiastically scrambled through the ruins of Osgiliath, trailing behind me a retinue that included Pippin and Svip, a handful of clerks, a few captains of our army's engineers, and the leading members of the Builders and Stonemasons' Guild.

Before long we were creating our own mountain of documents to add to the collection. Whenever I at last presented my findings to the Council, we would have more documents to hand than most of the Council members were likely to read, in the swiftly-growing stack of reports on the rebuilding's cost, time estimates and judgements of feasibility.

Svip had firmly declared that he would not let me set foot outside the White City without him. The passing days seemed to do nothing to ease his darkness of mood, but yet my small green bodyguard kept ever by me, plodding sullenly over heaps of rubble, or sitting with me in silence when I stopped to pore over plans or to scribble out drafts of my reports.

More than a few times, as I wrestled with the practicalities of rebuilding the Citadel of the Stars, I knew the sneaking wish that I might simply discard the notion of resigning the Stewardship.

As Steward, I thought, I could see to it that these plans would one day come to reality, no matter how many years it took. As merely one of Gondor's captains, it might be a dream that I would never see fulfilled; a proposal that I brought again to each new session of the Council, and that each new session of the Council again set aside.

_If that happens,_ I told myself, _you will be in good company. Your proposals will join those of your fellow dreamers from the last 1400 years_.

I could not afford overstepping my authority to the extent of ordering any work begun on the city itself. But as acting Steward I was just about within my jurisdiction if I ordered that our troops begin new work for improving Gondor's defences.

So it was that my plans focused in on Osgiliath's Great Stone Bridge.

This middle bridge of the three was the last of Osgiliath's bridges to fall. All of its stones save those of the massive pilings were rent asunder in battle when Boromir the First drove the enemy from Osgiliath. Since that time a succession of wooden bridges were built upon the ancient stone pilings. We tore down the last of these ourselves in the fighting of June 3018, to hold back the foe's advance when the Black Captain first led his forces against us.

I thought, _If__ the Dark Lord indeed is fallen, it can only improve our communications and our security if we rebuild the bridge again._

Only this time we would not build the bridge of wood. This time the bridge would rise in arches of stone, for the first time since the days of my namesake in 2475.

I made a bargain with Master Eppa of the Stonemasons' Guild that I myself would cover the costs of the work, if the Council proved unwilling to authorise payment. My coffers at the moment could stand the expense, but they would not do so for long if I entered into many such bargains. The Guild itself contributed their Men's wages for this effort, although Eppa apologetically pointed out that such a donation would be impossible for any future campaign of work on Osgiliath.

Of a certainty I could not authorise the quarrying and hewing of new stone, even had we the present manpower to allow any such expedition. Nor did I wish to make use of any of the fallen stones of the city, for I hoped that many of these would one day contribute to the rebuilding of Osgiliath itself. But there was another resource to hand, if we could but recover it. The stones that had once formed the bridge were present still, lying where they had fallen in the waters of Anduin.

_And here, _I told myself, _is a practical way to make use of those changes that accompanied your return to life. _

The main challenge of the task lay in locating the fallen stones. For Svip and for me, that challenge was easily surmounted.

Soldiers labouring alongside the Builders and Stonemasons' Guildsmen, we set about constructing the arched wooden framework above which the building stones would be fitted into place. A goodly number of our Men labouring here were among the troops of Osgiliath's garrison who had hewed down the bridge last summer. Many were their more-or-less good-natured jokes on the subject of tearing down bridges only to build them up again.

While this effort continued, Svip and I led the mission to recover the stones of the bridge.

Twice before, I swam the Anduin by the site of the Great Stone Bridge. The more recent time was in last summer's battle. Faramir and I, with Zvonimir Son of Beric and Fjolmod Son of Branimar, were the only members of our company to reach the western shore alive, as our comrades felled the wooden bridge to halt the enemy's advance.

Before that, I had investigated those waters when I was eighteen or thereabouts, when I was first scheming to achieve Osgiliath's reconstruction. I'd wanted to learn for myself if the stones of the ancient bridge were still intact enough to use, when or if the bridge's restoration became a priority. I had lowered myself into the River's depths on a rope tied to one of the stone pilings – Faramir insisted that I tie the rope about my waist, my thirteen-year-old brother grimly declaring that he was not going to explain to our father how he had let me be swept away by Anduin's current.

Even though that day had been sunny and clear, the murk and depth of the water made it all-but impossible for me to see the ancient stones. I'd had to locate them mostly by touch, feeling along the edges of the slippery, moss-draped stones, while the insistent current fought to pull me away.

The experience was a far different one now, when Svip and I dove in search of those same stones.

Now I could see them almost with clarity, the tumbled piles of stonework standing in the green-gold water like rows of underwater burial mounds. At the bottom of the River, the heaped-up stones seemed a warped reflection of the bridge they had once formed. None had fallen far from their positions in the lost bridge above.

And now I had no need of any tethering rope for me to hold my own against the Great River's current.

Two of the smaller ships of the captured pirate fleet we rigged with crane-arms and counterweights. This done, Svip and I took charge of the salvage operation from either end of the bridge – Svip declaring that he should work from the eastern side of the River, so that if another attack came upon us, I would be farther from the enemy than he. Since East Osgiliath would be between both of us and any such hypothetical attack, I accepted his orders with little protest.

Time and again Svip and I swam beneath. We would tie our crane's rope to a stone and then swim up once more, giving the word to lift the stone to the surface and thence to the shore.

Master Pelendur the Healer would not be best pleased when he learned of my frequent swims, a week after breaking two of my ribs. But in truth, I thought I had a solid defence against his displeasure. My ribs seemed to pain me less when I was in Anduin's water than when I was on land. I thought it likely that the repeated dunkings might even speed my healing.

I grinned at the thought that for once, my usual scorning of Healers' instructions might heal me more swiftly than the most scrupulous obedience.

The weather was marching resolutely into spring. The air was soft and warm, and the sun shone as though it disdained any notion that clouds might be able to hide its light. When I sat on the little pirate ship as we ferried building-stones to shore, or hiked through the ruins of Osgiliath comparing the ancient plans with what we could see on the ground, I glanced often to the east. There, sunlight and blue sky held sway over the former realm of fire and shadows.

That fact alone seemed to make the sun shine brighter over all of us. It seemed that it brought a feeling of purpose and hope, which had long been absent from the land of Gondor.

Our Men seemed to share in the feelings of hope and cheer. Of all those about me, only Svip seemed to spend his days in unremitting gloom.

He went about his work efficiently but with little comment. He kept a watchful eye out lest any peril should come to me, but otherwise he took scant interest in aught he saw or heard.

I could not help but contrast this behaviour against the Svip I had known a month before, when every new sight, sound and creature he encountered were sources of joyous fascination.

_I am so sorry, Svip,_ I thought, more than once. _I am so sorry that life with us has taken that joy from you._

More than once I asked myself whether the things he had learned and experienced could possibly make up for that loss.

He said he had wanted to know what it was like in our world; that he had not wanted to be alone any more. But could being alone be any worse than life as he faced it now, with bitter wariness replacing the old wonder he had felt for everything?

He was probably right, I had to confess to myself. He was probably right to say that he should go home, back to his house beneath the Rauros Falls.

I only hoped that going home would be enough. I could only hope that back in his house beneath the waters, with all his collection around him, he could regain the happiness that life in our world had stolen from him.

I was brooding on these matters one evening as Svip, Pippin and I rode back to the White City along the riverbank, after our first day of quarrying for building-stones in the Anduin.

Svip kept silent as was now his usual wont. Pippin strove valiantly for a time to keep a conversation alive, but at length Svip's silence and mine quashed his attempts.

But when we reached the gate of my townhouse, we had an encounter in which even Svip could not fail to take a little interest.

Darkness was falling. Borna, one of the footmen of my household, was just lighting the torches at either side of the gate. As we rode out from the Fifth Level's tunnel and rounded the corner toward my house, another Man wandered forth through the gate, with the air of one who walks in a dream. He turned back to wave and to blow a kiss to someone through the open gate. He was oblivious utterly to the nudges and whispers of Borna, who had noticed our approach and sought to make the Man stop acting like a moon-calf under the gaze of the Lord Boromir.

The kiss-blowing Man was the young Ranger Holgar Son of Armod, Svip's comrade and mine on our journey from Lilla Howe.

Svip paused as we watched Holgar's performance at the gate. I slid down from Svip's back, and Pippin jumped down after me. As Svip changed to his own form, I grinned at Pippin and remarked, "Yes, it looks like it really must be spring."

Holgar swiftly turned, and he blushed at the sight of us. The torchlight mercilessly revealed the crimson hue of his face.

My footman cast a disgusted look at Holgar and shook his head, then bowed to me and departed into the courtyard.

"My Lord," Holgar said hastily. "I was just going back to camp. Hello, Svip, how are you?" he added, with a sickly attempt at a smile.

Holgar and the others of Captain Cirion's company were stationed now at Osgiliath, and the most of them were on Svip's work crew at the Great Stone Bridge. If I remembered right, their shift at the bridge must have ended in the middle afternoon. Between then and now there was just time enough for the young Man to have walked from Osgiliath to the City, to have spent an hour or so here, and now to be heading back. And I did not need to ask how he had spent this hour in Minas Tirith.

The evening before, I had glanced down from my balcony at just about this same time, and I had seen the young Ranger in the courtyard with the upstairs maid, Sigyn Daughter of Gavrilo. Sigyn and her cousin Bettris were nominally occupied in folding the laundry, but the folding process was hindered by Sigyn's conversation with the Ranger.

Holgar, it seemed, had been recruited to help with the folding. This made but sluggardly progress, as the youth seemed compelled to stand very close to the maid, speaking earnestly and striving never to take his eyes from hers.

The romance which had blossomed in that dark day of the siege of Minas Tirith was clearly still in bloom. And just as obvious, I told myself, was the fact that all of us in my household had best resign ourselves to having very little laundry folded.

"You walked here from Osgiliath?" I asked Holgar.

"Yes, My Lord."

"And you've been doing this every day for … how many days is it, now?"

"Um, well, just about a week, My Lord." He sped on to add, "I'm off-duty, sir – I've got permission from Captain Cirion to leave the camp …"

"That is well," I said quietly, letting my voice sound with more sternness than in truth I felt. "And have you permission from Master Gavrilo to be paying suit to his daughter?"

"Well, I – no, sir, I haven't spoken with him yet – but I will, sir, I swear I will, at once, if – if Sigyn gives me reason to think I should …"

"See that you do," said I. "I do not say that you would forget yourself, but remember this also. Sigyn and her family are people of my household, and I will not permit ill to come to them by any soldier of Gondor. Your father is not here, Holgar, so let me remind you in his stead: treat her with the respect that is her due as a woman of Gondor, that no shame may come by you to her family or to yours."

"I will, My Lord," the boy said in steadfast tones. He managed to meet my gaze, though from his expression he was suffering the most excruciating embarrassment. He went on, "Neither her father, nor mine, nor you, My Lord, will have any cause for wrath."

"I am glad to hear you say it," I said. I smiled, and another deep blush suffused his features.

I remembered that feeling well from my own youth. Smiles can be worse torment to endure than scolding.

"Get you gone, then," I said. "'Tis no little hike back to Osgiliath. Good night to you, Holgar."

"Yes, My Lord. Good night. Good night, Master Peregrin; good night, Svip." The young Man bowed and took to his heels, as swiftly as he could without actually running.

Pippin chuckled quietly as Holgar rounded the corner and disappeared. "Poor lad," the Hobbit observed, grinning up at me. "You were a little harsh on him, weren't you, Boromir?"

I grinned back. "It is one of the privileges of growing older," I replied. "We get our turn to dish out a little of the humiliation we suffered in our youth."

Frowning, Svip voiced a question – something which was all too rare from him in these recent days. "What was that about?" he asked. "What's wrong with Holgar?"

Pippin glanced at the water creature in surprise. Then he hurriedly put his hand over his mouth, in the attempt to hide another grin.

"Ah," said Pippin, "well. That'll take some explanation. What do you say, Boromir? Can I have leave to walk Svip to the Fountain, and explain to him, um – the young gentleman's situation?"

"You may indeed," I granted.

The two of them set out along the Citadel Road. I walked through the courtyard gate, exchanging greetings with the two broadly grinning guards, who had witnessed this little comedy.

In the courtyard the young lady in question was nowhere to be seen. From somewhere within the house I heard the voice of Dame Weltrude her mother, in strident tones that could only be those of a strict maternal lecture.

I carefully avoided walking in on that particular scene. Instead I held a brief conference with the maiden's father.

My seneschal, as always, did his best to maintain the good servant's calm and expressionless demeanour. But that slipped a bit as Gavrilo assured me that he and his family were keeping a watchful eye on any developments, and that if young Holgar should overstep his bounds, he would wish that the Black Riders had got him.

Late in the morning following this encounter, a Rider from one of the Rohirrim's patrols galloped like a madman through Osgiliath's eastern gate. He rode across the pontoon bridge, then made for the site of the Great Stone Bridge, where I and the rest of my salvage crew were bringing in another stone to the shore.

I leapt into the shallow water and hastened ashore to meet the Rider.

Dismounting, the Rohirrim saluted me and launched into his report. "My Lord, the compliments of Éoban Son of Éosterwine, commander of my patrol. He sent me to report that a force of foot is approaching south along the Morannon Road. We were just over three leagues from Osgiliath when we spotted them; if they've continued at their same pace, they must be closer to two leagues distant, now. They were too far for us to be certain of their identity when I set out, but from the dust they raise and what we could see of them, the force should number upwards of four hundreds. Our patrol is advancing with care, to learn who they may be before we become known to them. Éoban will send another messenger when we know who they are. But he thought you should be informed as soon as might be, that Osgiliath may be prepared in the event that they are troops of the Enemy."

"Éoban did well," I answered. My thanks to him, and to you."

The messenger remounted and departed to rejoin his patrol.

"Shall we go to battle stations, My Lord?" The question came from Captain Eradan, erstwhile commander of the Cair Andros fortress and currently my second-in-command at Osgiliath.

"Aye," I said. "We shall."

Eradan set out to pass the word to the trumpeters of the garrison. With the steady efficiency of those who have answered full many a call to arms, our Men left off their work to obey the trumpets' command.

Two of our people were already at their battle stations before ever the trumpets sounded. Pippin had come running to me from the mountain of building stones. He had been lugging about a brush and a bucket of paint, painting numbers on stones at the orders of the stonemasons as they deciphered which stone of the bridge, long ago, had fitted against which. Svip, meantime, had started swimming across the River toward me as soon as he spotted the Rohirrim messenger. My two small friends now made it clear that they had no intention of letting me move an inch without them, until any danger was well and truly past.

Sometimes riding on Svip and sometimes with the three of us on foot, we spent the next hour touring the defences and speaking with the officers and Men at their posts along Osgiliath's newly re-built eastern wall.

If an attack did come, it would be the first time that our new-built wall faced combat. I think that a few of our Men almost hoped for an assault, that their handiwork on the wall might receive a proper test. Far more than actually hoped for this loudly declared that they did, in the boasting talk with which we ever seek to convince ourselves that what we feel is not fear.

This time, at least, it was not long that such talk was needful.

Near an hour after the first alarm had been raised, a second Rider of Rohan arrived bearing more certain tidings. This second message from Éoban Son of Éosterwine told that the force of foot they had encountered were none other than our own Men, returning from Mordor – a detachment of the Army of the West that marched from Minas Tirith a fortnight past.

With that news, dread departed from the Osgiliath garrison. But it did not depart from me.

The messenger had brought no more precise word of who these Men might be, or what had led to their separation from the army's main force. The fear came to me that these four hundreds, as the first Rider had estimated their strength, might be all that were left of the seven thousands who had marched from the White City.

It could not be so, I assured myself. The second messenger's report stated clearly that they were a _detachment_, not the remnant of the army itself. Besides, I argued, grasping at straws, we had the eagle's fabled message telling us of "our king's" great victory at the Black Gate – if the bird had indeed sung any such message at all, and if its message could be trusted.

Would the eagle have sung of a "great victory", if scarce one in twenty of our Men had survived the battle?

_Aye, he might,_ I thought grimly. _We do not know he would not_.

What did an eagle care for the numbers of our dead? If the Dark Lord indeed had fallen, then the eagles – and the Wizards, and the Elves – might see it as a victory even if none of the Army of the West lived to return home.

I figured up the days in my mind, and I found in that reckoning no respite from my dark conjectures.

It was seven days now since we accompanied my father's body into the City; seven days since the earthquake and the departure of fire and darkness from the eastern sky, and since the eagle's song of the Dark Tower being thrown down.

Seven days should be just enough time, at a forced march, for these Men to have made their way to Osgiliath from the Black Gate of the Morannon.

These speculations did not cease sounding in my mind, until the Men had marched through Osgiliath's eastern gate.

Svip, Pippin and I rode to meet them. There was a grim and troubled look about most of the Men, but I saw few wounded among them – with the notable exception of four Men near the head of the column, who were being carried on stretchers rigged from spears and blankets, and sheltered by sunscreens contrived out of tents.

The officer at the column's vanguard bellowed, "Company, halt!" As we rode up to him I recognised a Man who had been in my thoughts just a day or two before: Sergeant Zvonimir Son of Beric, one of the two Men who survived to reach the shore with Faramir and me, that June day when the last bridge was felled before the Black Captain's advance.

"My Lord," Zvonimir said in dour tones, as I dismounted and hastened to his side.

He would have continued. I interrupted him, dread nearly choking me as I asked, "How is it, Zvonimir, that you return with such small numbers? The rest of our army …"

"We parted from them, My Lord, six days out from Minas Tirith. The army continued onward through the Desolation, while we – we returned."

Zvonimir's words were enough to ease my sickening fear. But the sergeant himself seemed labouring through the throes of blackest despair.

He went on, "I beg leave to report to you – in private, if such may be. I ask that you grant us leave to rest here in Osgiliath until you have heard my report, and – and until you have decided what is to be our fate. The Rohirrim we met on the road told us of the loss of the Lord your father, for whom we grieve. You are the Lord of the City now; it is you who must hear my report and receive the messages I bring, and who must decree judgement upon us. Only these four wounded Men are not of our number; we found them nigh to the Crossroads only yesterday morn. They bear no taint of our shame. They are sore in need of the Healers' care. I ask that they be taken onward to the White City, while the rest of us halt here."

I frowned as I tried to determine the meanings behind his words. "Your requests are granted, of course," I said. "The Men may stand down and rest here, and the wounded will be conveyed on to the City – "

The Men bearing the stretchers had halted just behind Zvonimir. Now suddenly one of the wounded Men, I suppose hearing my voice, struggled suddenly to a sitting position and cried out, "My Lord Boromir!"

His bearers carefully set down their burden, while I hurried to them. The Man had fallen back to the stretcher once more. As I knelt beside him he reached out and seized my hand. His skin burned with fever; I felt it in his skin and saw it in his sweat-drenched face and in the wild desperation in his eyes.

I knew the Man, of that I was certain. I knew him as one of our soldiers; I recognised him, I knew I had spoken with him _somewhere _– the question was, where.

"My Lord," he murmured frantically, "My Lord, we have failed the Lord your father. We have failed him … We have failed Gondor. We do not deserve to be here, My Lord, we do not deserve to come home …"

"That is nonsense," I stated, even as I wracked my brain to recall who in the Valar's names this Man might be. "Of course you deserve to come home. You are home and you are safe, and all will yet be well – "

Then suddenly I remembered him.

He was a Ranger of Faramir's regiment. His name came to my mind as Amyntor, though I did not yet recall his patronymic. I remembered speaking with him once when I had visited Faramir in Ithilien. I thought that I could also picture him in my memory, returning from patrol and reporting to the officer of his company –

And that officer was Damrod Son of Daeron. The Man whose company my father had sacrificed, in his desperate bid to gain the Ring of Power.

The company of Ithilien Rangers that my father had described to me from his vision, eighty Men lying slaughtered amid the rocks of Ephel Dúath.

"Amyntor," I said. I saw from the flicker of acknowledgment in his face that I had indeed hit upon the right name. "Amyntor, you are of Damrod's company?"

"Yes," he murmured. His gaze was haunted with horror and pain. "They're all dead … all of them … there's only the four of us … we should be dead too. We should be. My Lord, how can we face your father? How can we ever face him, when we failed him? We failed …"

"No," I insisted, gripping his hand more tightly. "No, you did not fail. I know that, Amyntor, and my father knows it also. Now listen to me. Gondor needs you. It is your duty now to recover your strength. Let the Healers tend to you; do not fight them, that is a direct order. Do you hear me? You are to get well, you are to live; that is my command."

He frowned with a puzzled look as though he had not understood my words. But at last he whispered, "I will try, My Lord. I … I will try."

"Good Man," I said. "I will hold you to that."

Cautiously I worked my hand free from his. Getting to my feet, I commanded that the stretchers be transferred to carts, and Amyntor and his comrades be brought at once to the Houses of Healing.

Of Zvonimir Son of Beric, I asked, "You say you found them yesterday, near the Crossroads?"

"Aye, My Lord. It was Amyntor Son of Kænmar there whom we found. He had lost consciousness just at the edge of the road. A little water and brandy revived him, and when we'd rigged a stretcher for him he was able to guide a party of us to where the others were hidden – in a cave in the woods, about a league back toward the foothills. Two of them were unconscious, in delirium, as they are still. The third of them, Sirnir Son of Steinthor, was awake, but only barely – trying to care for his two comrades, though he is wounded and feverish himself – even as is Amyntor. Amyntor had left them and set out alone to seek help, but his fever had caught up with him. They would not speak much of what has happened to them, but their wounds must be more than a week old. The Valar only know how they have lasted this long."

I nodded. "We must pray that they will be rewarded for their courage," I said. "And that the Valar will sustain them now that their strength can sustain them no longer."

I fervently prayed that myself – for the four Men themselves, but also, I confess, for my brother.

The gods knew that the survival of these four would not make up for the loss of their comrades. And yet, I thought, it would be _something_ – something at least for Faramir to hang onto, on that day when at last he came home, and I was forced to tell him how our father had sent his Men to their deaths.

I had to remind myself that those four Men, and Faramir, were not the only ones for whom I must be concerned now. There were yet the Men under Zvonimir's command, and whatever trouble led him to speak so darkly of their shame.

Captain Eradan offered the use of his tent, set up with those of most of the garrison on the shore of West Osgiliath, that Zvonimir might report to me in private as he had requested. Sergeant Zvonimir was grimly silent as we crossed the pontoon bridge. In Eradan's tent, he declined my offer of a seat, standing stock still with an expression of doom upon his face as I seated myself in one of the captain's folding camp-chairs.

"Be at your ease, Zvonimir," I urged him. "Will you take some wine?"

"No, My Lord, I thank you," he said in tones of misery. "But some water would be very welcome."

I gestured for him to help himself from the jug and goblets upon a table near the wall of the tent. When Zvonimir had done so, and was clutching his goblet to him as though it were some kind of talisman, I said quietly, "Speak, my good friend. How is it that you were parted from the army?"

He blurted out, as though in echo of the wounded Amyntor, "We have failed you, My Lord. We have failed Gondor. We … It was six days' march from the White City. Three days before, the army met battle with a force of Orcs and Easterlings. We had been well warned by our scouts; we slew many and the rest of them took to their heels, with but little loss to us. But that very night … the Black Riders, flying high above us, came to dog our steps, and they followed ever near us as we continued our march. So at least said the Elven lords among the people of the Lord Aragorn, for none of the rest of us had eyes sharp enough to see them.

"We could not see them, My Lord, but we could sense them … we could sense them, the dread of them, all about us – in the very air, and in the ground beneath our feet. We came to the Desolate Lands, and the desert stretched before us – and in the Valar's truth, My Lord, I do not know how it was, but it seemed as though the land itself were our enemy. Each breath we took brought more fear to us; fear worse than that of the demons above us, worse than that of the Black Captain himself, when we faced him here this midsummer past. The four hundreds and thirty-four of us who have returned – fear lay so heavy upon us that we could scarce move; we could not walk nor ride one step farther north.

"The Captains took council amongst themselves, and at length decreed that those of us who could go no farther should return to Minas Tirith, to join the garrison defending the White City and perhaps have occasion to erase some of our shame with deeds of courage, if the City should again come under attack. The horsemen among us gave up their steeds to the use of others who kept still the courage to go forward, and we turned back from the Desolate Lands on foot. So we have returned, My Lord – and though we rejoice that no threat menaces our City, it leaves us nothing but to stand before you shamed and defeated by our own fear."

"I thank you for your honesty, Zvonimir," I said. "I cannot but think that the fault lies less with you, than with the evil that you faced. Was it the Lord my brother who placed you in command of this force?"

"Aye, My Lord, it was."

His words confirmed my thought. Faramir and I both knew first hand the courage of Sergeant Zvonimir Son of Beric, and many an Orc now in the underworld knew it also. The burly old soldier had fought at our sides, facing with no sign of fear the army of Mordor under the King of the Nazgûl himself.

Faramir had chosen Sergeant Zvonimir to command this mission because he knew that I would remember that, and that I would understand it was some force other than cowardice that had defeated these Men.

I asked, "You said that you bear messages for me?"

"Yes, My Lord." He took from the satchel over his shoulder a packet of dispatches which he handed to me. There were two letters from Faramir, one to our father and one to me, and there was one also from Éomer King to Marshal Elfhelm.

I bypassed the letter addressed to Father, and opened Faramir's letter to me.

My brother had written:

"_Twenty-Fourth Day of March, On the Morannon Road, six days' march from Minas Tirith._

_"To my brother Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor, I send my love and greetings._

_"I've explained in my letter to Father what has led these four hundreds and thirty-four of our Men to return._

_"I promise you, these Men bear no blame for what has brought them to you. _

_"The most of them are young, Men for whom the war and Mordor have never been more than distant legend. They are herdsmen and farmers, whose loyalty to Gondor brought them to serve at our country's call, but who have never so much as seen an Orc, leave alone the nightmares they've experienced since they left their homes. _

_"Even for many of our seasoned warriors, the terrors of this land have proved almost more than they can bear. The hearts of all, from highest to lowest, are downcast, and foreboding of evil grows heavier on all of us._

_"It is more than natural fear afflicting these Men. The Nazgûl are trailing us, as they have been now for two days. The wraiths have uttered no cry nor yet stooped down upon us, and they are out of the sight of all save for Prince Legolas and the Sons of Elrond. Yet they are with us always and their presence is felt by all, as a deepening of shadow and a dimming of the sun. _

_"We came today into the lands of the Desolation, and the marsh and the desert seem to magnify tenfold the fear that Nazgûl have brought upon our forces._

_"This fear is oppressing all of us. But today the horror's hold grew so deep on these four hundreds that they could not physically go on._

_"I have thought it best that these Men be sent back to Minas Tirith, to add their strength to our numbers that guard the White City. But the decision has troubled me, for I know that they may suffer at the hands of their comrades or their commanders, when it is learned under what circumstances they were sent home._

_"I beg you, as much as you can, see that these Men are neither punished nor victimised for their return. The terror is more than mortal that has been heaped upon them. They should earn no blame that it has been more than their mortal strength could endure._

_"Your Loving Brother, _

_"Faramir."_

I sighed as I folded Faramir's letter closed.

"Zvonimir," I said, "my brother confirms for me what I already believed. I am certain that no blame is due to you and those with you. All of us saw when Minas Tirith was besieged that the fear of the Nazgûl is more than mortal Men can withstand. I know your courage; you have never given me any cause to doubt it. It is some cursed magic of the Dark Lord, not any failing of yours, that has led you to stand before me now."

"Yet, My Lord," the sergeant countered bitterly, "six thousands and more of our troops were able to go on, and only we were not."

"Magic works differently upon each of us," I stated. "Do not be so eager to take the blame upon yourself. If you would continue to serve our country, then Gondor will need you in the strength of your courage as before, not broken by what you mistakenly see as your shame."

They were, perhaps, less than sympathetic words. But Zvonimir, I think, took some comfort in them. He stood up straighter, then he bowed to me. Firmly he said, "I will obey you, My Lord."

From further discussion with Zvonimir I learned that just over one hundred of the Men who had returned with him were of the troops of Rohan. These I ordered on to Minas Tirith, to the Rohirrim's barracks to report to Marshal Elfhelm.

The others were our Men. Three score of them were from among our troops of various postings in Anórien, Ithilien and along the Rammas. The majority, as Faramir had written, were of the volunteers of the Outlands who had marched to Minas Tirith's succour, Men of the Anfalas, Ringló Vale, the Ethir and Pinnath Gelin. All of these I ordered added to the garrison at Osgiliath.

Faramir had been right, I knew; it was too much to expect or hope that unpleasantness would not ensue, when our Men here learned of what had brought these their fellows home. I spoke with Eradan of it and set him to pass the word amongst his officers, that conflict between the garrison and those newly returned would not be tolerated, and that three consecutive shifts on construction duty would await any caught fighting over this matter.

_If nothing else_, I thought, _we can see to it that the Men are simply too exhausted to fight each other._

As that afternoon waned, Svip, Pippin and I returned to Minas Tirith. Pippin, as usual, I gave leave to seek out Merry. Svip returned to the Fountain of the Tree, and I took myself to the Houses of Healing, to inquire after Faramir's four wounded Men.

The Warden of the Houses was able to give me a truly heartening report. All of the four, he believed, would make full recoveries. They had a variety of sword, axe and arrow wounds, but none of their wounds should have been life-threatening had they received prompt attention. It was the Men's travails following the battle that had brought on them the fevers from which they suffered.

Amyntor, the Warden reported to me, had told him a little of what they had endured. The Ranger spoke of a tortuous journey through the mountains, always in dread of discovery, wounds reopening frequently when Men fell from missteps in the jagged rocks. Days had passed when they found nothing of food or drink, then they found a stream that must have been tainted, for the two lesser-wounded Men, Amyntor and Sirnir, fell ill after drinking from it.

The Chief Healer declared, "They were in very real peril of their lives by the time they reached us here, My Lord. But as soon as they had treatment, that peril fell off at once. We have cleansed their wounds and given them draughts against the fever; all four of them have responded as well as ever I could wish. Their fevers have faded almost entirely. Three of the Men were sleeping peacefully when last I checked upon them. Amyntor Son of Kænmar was awake a few moments ago; he likely wakes still, if you would wish to visit him."

Gladly I took the Warden up on this offer. I found the Ranger indeed vastly improved since our meeting a few hours before. His gaze was clear and alert, and his skin no longer burned.

I sat in the chair by his bed, and inquired how he fared. This question, Amyntor did not answer. Instead he murmured faintly, "My Lord – the Healers have spoken of your Lord father's death. I am so very sorry, My Lord."

"I thank you, Amyntor," I told him, putting my hand over his.

He spoke on, in bitter grief. "We can never forgive ourselves for failing him. The four of us – we would not even have sought to return home, save that we thought the Lord Steward might perhaps need to hear our report. But … it would have been justice if we had died with the others, instead of returning, to live with our failure …"

I hesitated a moment. Then I decided that there was no way to proceed save by telling him at least something of the truth.

"Amyntor," I said, "it is difficult for me to speak of this, but you and your comrades deserve to know. The Lord Steward had been ill. He was suffering from the strain brought on by Gondor's peril. He hid his illness from all of us, but – but I cannot but think that he was … not fully in his right mind, when he assigned your company that mission. It was little else but suicide; no Men in Middle Earth could have accomplished it. I cannot believe that he would have sent you thus to your deaths if he had been fully himself."

"I – " Amyntor began, then he stopped and pondered that. "I … thank you, My Lord," he whispered at last. "Thank you for telling me."

I asked the Ranger what he could tell me of their mission, and the company's fate. He answered that Damrod had told them they were to make for Mount Doom in search of the two halflings who carried the Ring of Power, and to bring them back to Minas Tirith.

Their instructions from my father were to watch as well as possible the Morgul Road from Minas Morgul to the Mountain of Fire. That was the route that the halflings were believed to be taking. But the Rangers had orders from my father not to attempt reaching Mordor through Minas Morgul itself, for the evil that dwelt there would be more than they could hope to defeat.

They had sought a passage across the mountains just north of Minas Morgul, and it was there, near the crest of Ephel Dúath, that they were surprised by a war party of Orcs, that ambushed them out of a chain of hidden caves.

"There – there was one mercy, My Lord," Amyntor continued faintly. "The Orcs were in a hurry. They did not stop to make certain that all of us were dead. They took a few of our comrades' bodies with them, as … as provisions …" he closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again and went on, "but not many, may the Valar be thanked. They did not stop to make sure of us, but moved on at a swift march, heading east across the mountains.

"I had regained consciousness while they were leaving, and when I was certain they had gone, I searched over the battlefield and found three others that yet lived. The four of us – we held council on whether we should continue on, and attempt to complete our mission. At last we decided that wounded as we were, we had no real chance of succeeding. We judged it was better that we try to make our way home to report to the Lord Steward, that he might send out another force, if need be. And … and the rest you know."

"I am glad that you chose as you did, Amyntor," I said. "I grieve in my heart that you needed to make that choice."

When I left the Houses of Healing, I made my way through the lengthening afternoon shadows across the Seventh Level, to Fen Hollin and the Mansions of the Dead.

Faramir's letter to me weighed heavily on my mind.

I told myself that there was little cause for me to be cast down by it. The letter was written over a week ago. The dread that had menaced our forces then must be long past.

I knew that they had gone through battle since the time that Faramir wrote that letter. But if we could believe in the eagle's famous tidings, then they had been victorious. I had to believe that victory had been theirs, and that my brother was safe, and would soon return home.

Wherever our army was now, that unheard-of sunlight over Mordor must shine in their gaze, even as it shone for us.

As I stepped into the House of the Stewards, I saw that I was not alone in choosing that afternoon to pay a visit to the tombs.

Standing silently by the bier of Théoden King was the fallen king's niece, the Lady Éowyn of Rohan.

The sun, near to taking its rest behind the shadows of Mindolluin, gleamed down upon her through the high windows, setting her hair to sparkling as though she wore a veil sewn with gems. The sling on her left arm was starkly white against the deep blue of her gown. I noticed suddenly that the dress she wore was one of those her brother had purchased for her here in the City, that had not fit her properly and that I had sent Dame Weltrude and Sigyn to see about altering.

There were, I thought, no complaints that could be made about the dress's fit now.

She had not yet noticed my presence. As I gazed at her another thought struck me, called to my mind by the midnight hues of her dress.

I thought suddenly of the cloak my mother had worn, of the same night-blue shades as the Lady Éowyn's dress. I thought of the silver stars that were embroidered at the cloak's clasp and hem, and my glance went again to Lady Éowyn's hair, gleaming as brightly as those stars.

The lady bowed her head at last to the King her uncle, and she stepped away from his tomb as though she loathed to leave him. She turned to my father's bier, and curtsied low before the body of the Lord Denethor. Then she rose and turned to leave the tombs, pausing for only an instant when she saw me standing in the doorway.

I walked forward to meet her. "Your pardon, Lady Éowyn," I said. "I did not wish to disturb you."

"I thank you, My Lord," she said, curtsying in return. "You did not disturb me."

"It is well with you, Lady?" I asked.

"It is well enough," she answered, with her usual solemn gaze. "And with you, Lord Boromir?"

"Aye," I said. "It is well enough, as well."

She hesitated, a faint frown touching her forehead, and opened her lips suddenly as though there were something of which she meant to speak. But she changed her mind on that, and only bowed her head to me again, saying quietly, "A good day to you then, My Lord."

"Aye, Lady. And to you."

The Lady of Rohan walked from the House of the Stewards. I sighed – at what, I could hardly have said – and crossed to my father's tomb.

I had thought that I owed a visit. It was days since last I had stood here. But now that I was here, I found that my thoughts were not, for the most part, of my father.

I prayed for my brother's safe return, and that of all our Men. Then my thoughts raced on once more.

I thought of the last time I had seen my mother wear that blue, star-embroidered cloak.

I thought of what a beautiful vision the Lady Éowyn had been, standing here with the sunlight playing in her hair.

I thought of Éowyn's cousin the Princess Théodhild of Rohan, my wife whose earthly remains lay here behind walls of cold stone. I thought also of our son. I remembered the joy and pride upon my father's face as he held his grandson on his knee. I heard again my father's laugh when he handed Findemir his first toy sword, a weapon of wood which the one-year-old immediately commenced to chew.

I wondered suddenly if that wooden sword with the tooth-marks in it still existed somewhere, packed away in some chest and forgotten, far from the sight of Men. Packed away like our mother's midnight-dark cloak, like the memory of those whom we had loved, and who had left us.

I thought of how our father had smiled, when first he held his grandson in his arms. And I thought, _I'm sorry, Father. I am sorry that I waited too long, and kept you from the joy of doing that again._

The reflection came to me of how many of my kin lay here, embalmed on tables of stone or buried behind the cold walls. I thought of how many were here, and of how few still lived, to walk in the sunlight upon this Middle Earth.

We had come near, far too near, to all of us lying here.

I thought of the deadly perils that Faramir and I had passed through – and I prayed that indeed the immediate perils were past, where Faramir was concerned. I thought of how slight were the changes in events that would have led to Faramir and me lying here as well, with our father and our mother and the women we had loved.

And did we lie here, and our wives and my son by us, then there would be the end – the end of the House of Húrin, of the line of the Stewards of Gondor.

I whispered, "My love to you, to all of you," before I turned and walked from that cold, silent House.

To my surprise I saw that the Lady Éowyn still lingered upon the Silent Street. She stood at the base of the stairs to the House of the Stewards. She was gazing east, to the cloudless sky above that distant land, beyond the Mountains of Shadow. But she turned at the sound of my footsteps, and she smiled that faint smile of hers, like the pale warmth of the winter's sun.

"My Lord Boromir," she said, when I stopped by her side. "I did not wish to disturb you in your visit. But there is something of which I have been meaning to speak with you."

"Of course, My Lady," I answered. "What is it?"

"No one can have failed to notice how poorly Svip has seemed, in these last days. I have wanted to ask if you think there is aught I could do to help him. He … he is mourning for the Lord your father?"

"Yes, he is," I said, "though he may not know that he is mourning. He may not even know the word. I don't know if he has spoken to you of his people, My Lady – but they do not live in each other's company; their world is built upon being alone. He has lived for thousands of years, without ever knowing the pain of losing any being for whom he cares. To meet that pain for the first time, after so long a life without it – I dread to imagine what it must be like for him."

"Yes," she answered quietly, nodding. "Yes, so do I. Do you think – would there be any good in me offering to continue his training with the horses of the Citadel? I will do so gladly if you think there would be any good in it. But I have hesitated to ask."

"I suggested that to him a few days ago," I said. "At that time he did not seem welcoming of the idea. He's refused to leave me out of his sight when I am beyond the City's walls. I suppose – gods help him, I suppose he hopes that by keeping a close rein on me, he can protect me, can keep me alive. As none of us were able to do for my father."

"Poor Svip," the Lady of Rohan murmured. "We are trained from childhood to endure this kind of loss, and even then it is more terrible than any other sorrow. To encounter it without that training …" helplessly, she shook her head. "You are right, My Lord. It is worse than I can imagine."

"Will you speak with him, My Lady?" I asked her suddenly. "The Valar know that my words to him have done little good. But perhaps something you will say may bring some hope to him, as my words have failed to do."

"I fear that my words will prosper no better than yours. But, yes," she said. "Yes, I will gladly try."

I walked with the lady up the Road of Stairs, and across the Seventh Level to the Citadel and the Court of the Fountain. Before we reached the Court I bade my farewells to Éowyn, for we had agreed that Svip might take umbrage at the notion that she and I had been scheming together for ways to cheer him up. When I had parted from the lady I followed my familiar path to the roof of the White Tower, my steps considerably slowed by my pondering thoughts.

From the Tower's roof I looked down and saw Lady Éowyn seated on the wall of the Fountain, with Svip a small dark shape in the water by her side.

I glanced away quickly, unwilling to seem to myself to be spying upon them. But my thoughts did not stray far from that valiant lady, who faced a friend's grief with the same unflinching spirit with which she faced all of her foes.

The memory came to me of my father's file on me, with its list of potential candidates to be my bride. I thought of the note that my father had written by Éowyn's name: "B. seems to like her."

_All right, Father, all right, _I thought, _you were right, as always._

_I do like her, thanks very much for noticing._

_I like her. The question is, _I told myself, _do I like her enough to try doing something about it?_

It surprised me at first to realise that I had thought that. But as I thought of it further, it did not seem so surprising after all.

By the gods, I wished I had brought myself to think of such matters when my father had wanted me to, when he was still alive. I wished with all my soul that I had married when he wished me to, and that I'd given him the chance to hold a grandchild again, before death took that chance from him.

It was too late to do that for my father. _And yet, _I thought, _one's father's wishes are not the only reasons why Men contemplate such actions._

I thought, _The Lady Éowyn is a woman worthy of the greatest admiration. She has the courage and strength of the greatest warriors of her line. On the battlefield she has triumphed where all others have failed._

_And, _I thought, _it is not only on the battlefield where admiration is due to her._

The evening's shadows drew in about me little heeded, as Éowyn's image shone before my eyes.

By the time I climbed down from the White Tower that night, I had made up my mind.

Etiquette, of course, demanded that I speak first to the King her brother, before I had any speech on the subject with her. But instinct told me I might do well to bend slightly my obedience to that rule, where it concerned a maiden who was so firmly the mistress of her own mind.

It was not, I told myself, that I thought Lady Éowyn would utterly flout convention. I would not wish her to, nor would I wish to do so myself. But yet the lady had shown often enough her independence of thought, and her dislike for having her path chosen by her male relations.

_If I am to ask her brother for permission to woo her, _I thought, _I may do well to first ask that permission of her._

Éowyn had gone by the time I crossed the Court of the Fountain, a fact for which I was absurdly grateful. My breath hitched and my heart beat decidedly faster at the thought of encountering her, until I had to grin at myself and take myself to task for my ridiculous alteration of mind.

_Two hours ago, _I told myself, _you were a mature and sensible Man. Now you decide that you will ask a lady to marry you, and you turn into as hopeless a moon-calf as Holgar!_

The Lady of Rohan had maintained her schedule of riding with Marshal Elfhelm's patrol upon every other day. She would ride with the patrol again on the morrow, and their patrol, I knew, passed always through Osgiliath late in the afternoon.

Now I awaited that afternoon, eagerly yet with more than a few twinges of fear.

In my thoughts I mocked myself for my sudden upsurge in vanity. But that did not stop me from bringing a change of clothes with me that day to Osgiliath. I had been doffing my outer tunics at any rate before my recent swims, in deference to a polite reminder from Master Gavrilo that silks, velvets, leathers and furs do not fare all that well with frequent drenchings in the Anduin. But this time I brought with me changes of the rest of my clothing, stolidly ignoring the questioning glances from my household and Pippin at the satchel I carried with me. In vain did I tell myself that if the lady were put off by my frequent dunkings of myself and my clothing in River water, then the damage to her opinion of me had doubtless already been done.

As the hour of the patrol's return drew nigh, I excused myself from the building-stone retrieval detail for the remainder of the day. Captain Eradan carefully did not comment when I requested the use of his tent in which to change my clothes. Pippin restrained his comments as well, though his eyes nearly popped and his eyebrows bade fair to jump off his head when he saw me reappear in fresh clothing, with my hair as dried as I could make it and neatly combed.

When Elfhelm's patrol rode over the pontoon bridge, I contrived to be near at hand. Merry, seated to the fore of Lady Éowyn's saddle, hailed me with typical Hobbitly enthusiasm. The lady also smiled, though her greeting was a good deal more restrained.

I bowed and bade good afternoon to both of them, then begged Merry's pardon and requested of Éowyn if she would do me the favour of speaking with me alone.

She frowned a little in puzzlement, but she answered, "Of course, My Lord."

Éowyn gave Merry leave to join Pippin in his ongoing work painting the numbers on building-stones and otherwise assisting the Stonemasons' Guildsmen. I then had to dissuade Svip from accompanying us. My friend had seen that I'd left off my work, and when I'd emerged from changing my clothes he swam over to the western shore to keep an eye on me.

"It's all right, Svip, I promise you," I told him. "I'd like to speak with Lady Éowyn alone. But I promise you I won't get into any trouble, and we'll stay on this shore. If there's an attack, you'll know of it long before any danger reaches us. I'll not leave Osgiliath without seeking you out first, I swear it."

"All right," Svip said at last, sullenly scowling. He swam, with exaggeratedly loud splashing, back to his work crew on the eastern side of the River.

_Bloody hell_, I thought. _If it _does_ transpire that I'm to be paying court to this lady, I will certainly have a time of it trying to snatch a few moments alone! _

Éowyn of Rohan smiled at me quizzically, and inquired, "Where do you wish to speak, My Lord?"

I forced myself not to clear my throat, and I clasped my hands tightly behind me to ensure that they would not be fidgeting.

"Have you seen the Dome of the Stars?" I asked, hoping that I sounded a good deal calmer than I felt. "It is one of our landmarks in Gondor. I fear there's been little time or occasion for sight-seeing while you have been here with us."

The lady looked more puzzled than before. She answered, "No, My Lord, I have only seen it from a distance. I would be glad to see the Dome, if you have the time to guide me."

So Lady Éowyn and I walked the short distance to the hallowed ruins that once housed within them the throne room and council chambers of ancient Gondor. As we walked I gave a brief account of the building's history and its destruction during the Kin-strife, to which she listened politely but with still a deeply puzzled look.

When we walked under the remnants of the great Dome itself, she gazed upward respectfully for some moments. Then she said, "I am sorry, My Lord, that I did not report to you earlier on my conversation with Svip. I fear I had no particular success. He listened to me patiently enough, but he would speak little himself. In truth I do not know if my words made any difference to him or not."

"I thank you, My Lady," I said. "I fear that for now, that is all that any of us can hope to accomplish."

She turned that frank, direct gaze of hers upon me. She asked, "Is there something else of which you wished to speak?"

"Aye, Lady, there is. Will you sit?" I suggested.

The ruin of the Dome had left a profusion of heaped, fallen stone strewn over the bright mosaics of the ancient floor. There was no shortage of vast, carven stones to serve as benches. On one of these the Lady Éowyn now sat, smiling warily at me. I sat myself down on another stone block near to the one she had chosen, and I told myself, _Speak, then, you fool! This was your idea, you know, not hers!_

I'd decided in my ponderings that I could not speak to her of more personal intentions, without informing her fully of how matters stood with me.

I did not think that the lady's decisions would necessarily be guided by the status of the Man who expressed his intentions to her. But yet it would not be the honourable part were I to speak to her, as she thought, as the Steward of Gondor, when I had no intention of ever taking office.

So as we sat there I spoke to her of my choice to renounce the Stewardship, and of the factors that led to that decision.

Solemnly and attentively she listened. To my relief, I found that at least _this_ topic of discussion was one on which I could speak to her without excessive nerves.

I hoped that my calm would endure when I turned at last to the question I wished to ask of her.

As I closed the recital of my reasoning, Éowyn gazed at me steadily, weighing her words with care before she spoke.

"I know, My Lord," she said in her quiet, measured tones, "that you have not undertaken this decision lightly. I know as well, that you alone can know in truth whether you are able to fulfil the Steward's duties or no. But if you will permit me to offer an opinion, I cannot say I am convinced that Gondor would suffer for it did you take your place as Steward – your dependence upon the River notwithstanding. Your people, I am certain, hold no fear that you will fail them. They would hail with joy your accession to the office of your longfathers, and such limitations as you suffer would cause them scant concern. I make bold to say that neither, perhaps, should they cause such concern to you."

I held back a sigh. "I thank you for your words, Lady of Rohan," I answered. "And I cannot deny that they hold some temptation for me. But nor can I deny my conviction that this is the right course to take. I would see Gondor with a Steward who suffers no restrictions in his ability to serve our country. My brother is the Man who will best fulfil that duty, not I."

She nodded. "If that is truly your belief, then it would be ill of me to attempt to turn you from it. I know … I know the suffering that can come to a country when its ruler has not the health sufficient to fulfil his duties." She studied me then as though I had presented her with some complex problem of battlefield tactics. "Forgive me for speaking of so ill-favoured a subject. Yet I know I say nothing of which you have not also thought. What if, as the Valar forbid, the Lord your brother should not return from this campaign? What then?"

She was right; I had thought of it, and more than once. Though every time I did so, I sought to shove the thought as far as might be from my mind.

I said, "Then I will be the Steward. I wish Gondor to have the Steward who can serve her interests best. I do not wish her to have no Steward at all."

For a time then neither of us spoke. I glanced up again at the jagged remains of the Dome, at the faded glimmers of time-weathered paint and gems that once had made up that ceiling's legendary field of stars.

"May I ask of you a question, My Lord Boromir?" said the Lady Éowyn.

My gaze turned once more to her. "Of course."

"I do not think this question of the succession is one on which you seek advice. If your mind is at peace with your decision, why then did you speak of it to me?"

"Your perception does not fail you," I told her. "I spoke of it because I wished you to have full knowledge of my situation, before I asked of you another question."

The lady raised her eyebrows a little at that. "And that question, My Lord?" she inquired.

Now that we had come to it, I rather wished for some way of delaying the question. But the shieldmaiden would have no respect for any attempts at evasion. There was no worthy course for me to follow now, save to go forward.

I said, "I ask of you, Éowyn Daughter of Éomund, whether you would be prepared to consider me as a suitor for your hand in marriage."

For a moment she made no reaction, either in expression or in word. Then haughty anger showed upon her face as she sat there on her chair of rubble, spear-straight and as proud as any Elven queen.

The Lady Éowyn demanded, "Did my brother put you up to asking me that?"

I had imagined many answers that she might give, but this one had never been among their number.

I pointed out, striving not to sound too annoyed, "There are a good many gracious ways that a lady might answer that question. That was not one of them."

At that she blushed, and her glance dropped suddenly from mine. In that moment I was reminded of how young in fact she was, her queenly demeanour and her battlefield prowess notwithstanding.

"I ask your pardon, Lord," she said stiffly. "I see now that he did not."

"If I may ask, Lady," said I, "why should you believe that he would have done so?"

The lady looked up again, fixing me with her familiar defiant gaze. "My Lord," she said, "I do not say that my brother wishes to be rid of me. But it can be no very comfortable position for a young warrior to find himself flung not only into kingship, but also into being the guardian of a maiden whose escapades may whiten his hair and deprive him of his sleep. My brother may feel some pride in my achievements. But I do not doubt that he would also be glad for another Man to share some of the worries that go with being protector to so troublesome a woman."

"If you will permit me," I said, "I believe that you sell your brother short. You may indeed cause him some anxious moments. But I believe that he feels more pride for you than concern. He knows, I am sure, that you are as skilled and fearless a warrior as any in Middle Earth, and as fully capable of fending for yourself. Or if he does not know that, he should."

"I thank you, My Lord," she said warily, seeming not quite certain of whether she should still look defiant or not. After a moment's hesitation, she went on, "You have not spoken of this matter with my brother?"

"I have not. It is true of course that protocol decrees I should first seek his permission to pay my addresses to you, before speaking of it to you. But I thought it not unlikely that you may have your own opinion on the question, regardless of what Éomer King may think. It was my thought that I could save all of us unnecessary strife, by first asking you if this quest could have any prospect of success. If you tell me that you have no wish to consider my suit, then shall there be an end to it, and we will spare the King your brother any embarrassment on the subject."

The lady eyed me still in some trepidation, as though seeking to determine whether she was the target of a cruel jest. "And may I ask, Lord Boromir," said she, "why it is that you think me worthy of your addresses?"

I have, it is true, no wide experience with seeking young ladies in marriage. I had only done so once before that day. But whatever I had expected of this venture, I had not expected the conversation to proceed like this.

"Because, Éowyn of Rohan," I said, "you are a lady beautiful and valiant. You have won renown that shall live far beyond our days, yet you have proven that your valour and strength are constant also in the days of ordinary struggle, not only in those battles that are destined to become legend. And," I went on, "you have proven that you have your own mind, and that you do not fear to speak it. I ask of you, then, Lady of Rohan: do not hesitate to speak your mind now. Do you wish that I shall not speak of this matter to the King your brother? For I judge from your expression that you may find it no agreeable concept. Only tell me, Lady, that you wish me not to speak of it again, and you will hear no more of it."

At the first she did not speak. Then she answered, her expression solemn and thoughtful, "No, My Lord; that is not what I will tell you. I will tell you that if indeed you find me worthy of such regard, then I will be proud and honoured to consider your suit."

The full weight of what she had just said seemed suddenly to strike home to her, and a hint of fear sparked suddenly in her eyes. "You understand, of course," she added in some haste, "I can give to you no guarantee upon what my eventual answer to your suit may be."

"I understand that, Lady," I assured her. "I did not expect any, and I wish for none."

For some moments more her fair, grave eyes sombrely regarded me. Then a hint of colour came again to her face. She rose from her improvised chair, and as I hastily stood as well, she held out her hand to me. "I know that you have work to do, My Lord," she said, "and I would not keep you from it. I thank you for your words to me. We will speak of this again when my brother has returned to Minas Tirith."

Taking her hand in mine, I wondered if it were appropriate for me to kiss her hand, or if that were likely to send her fleeing in utter confusion. The ground was too shaky yet, I decided, to warrant such a step. So I only bowed slightly as I kept hold of her hand, and said, not taking my gaze from hers, "I thank you for your consideration, Éowyn Daughter of Éomund."

She slipped her hand free, bowed her head to me and then started away, striding from the ruins of the Dome of the Stars. She did not quite break into a run, but I thought that she would have done so, had she not known that I would still be watching her.

For some little time I stood there, marvelling upon the oddities of life.

I told myself that I had been spoilt by my previous experience of wooing. Our marriage had been more or less arranged, and Théodhild had, or so at least she had told me, never entertained any real thought of refusing me.

I wondered how Men who had done this repeatedly maintained the courage to keep trying. It was a new experience, and one of which I thought I was not entirely fond, to know there was at least an equal chance that her answer would be "no" as that it would be "yes."

_Do not complain,_ I advised myself. _At least it will add some piquancy to your life. And it will give you something different to worry about, besides the Stewardship and our returning King and whether or not your brother lives to return home._

It was the morning following my conversation with Éowyn, when that fear for Faramir could finally be put aside.

We had only a few of the bridge's building-stones yet to retrieve. Svip's crew and mine had completed the retrieval of the stones from the eastern- and western-most arches. Now our crews together were working on those from the middle arch, our boats stationed at either side of the pilings to avoid running into each other.

I had been below, and when I surfaced to tell the Men to bring the stone in to shore, I spotted Pippin on the western bank. He was jumping up and down on one of the great blocks of stone and waving his hands above his head.

"Boromir," Pippin shouted at the top of his small Hobbit lungs. "Boromir, look!"

He yelled out more, but the rest of his words were drowned in the rapidly approaching sounds of a troop of horsemen.

Holding on to the side of the boat, I looked over my shoulder.

As I looked, the first of the horsemen started across the pontoon bridge.

There were, I judged, perhaps two hundred of them; I could see the last few in their column in the distance, just having ridden through the gate of the east wall.

At the head of the column rode two standard bearers. The White Horse of Rohan was one of their banners. The other was the White Tree of Gondor with a bow and quiver blazoned beneath the Tree: the banner of my brother.

As they reached the western bank, the foremost riders spread out along the shore and dismounted to water their horses. I saw several of our Men hasten over to two of the dismounted horsemen. And I had no doubt that I recognised those two Men.

Svip, as ever, was keeping a wary eye on all my doings. As soon as the tumult began, he swam over from his own boat to mine. Though he did not voice any questions, there was at least a question in his gaze.

"Svip," I called to him, hoping that this might stir him if nothing else would, "Svip, it is Faramir."

This time I was not disappointed. For a brief instant I even saw a smile upon the water creature's face.

"Come on!" Svip said. I needed no further urging, and the two of us struck out for the shore.

Svip could have easily outpaced me, but he was careful to match his speed to mine. He reached the bank only a few seconds before me, turning to his horse form as he surged out of the water.

I was pulling on my outer tunics while Pippin ran over to us. The Hobbit arrived just in time to get himself drenched as Svip shook the water from his mane. I laughed out loud at Pippin's spluttering protest, and boosted myself to Svip's back, almost without noticing the obligatory dull twinge from my ribs.

One of the Stonemasons lifted Pippin up to sit behind me. Then Svip, Pippin and I made our way at near a gallop to the pontoon bridge.

Faramir, with Éomer of Rohan by his side, was speaking with his old friend Captain Eradan. From the solemn expressions upon all of their faces, I had little doubt that they were speaking of the Lord Steward Denethor.

They turned toward us at the sound of Svip's approaching hoofbeats. And for that moment at least, Faramir's face was lit by a smile undarkened by shadow.

Svip pulled to a halt beside them. Pippin jumped down from his back, and I followed a shade more cautiously. In the next instant, my brother and I embraced.

"You're alive," Faramir said. He smiled at me in melancholy as we stepped apart and clasped each other's arms.

"So are you," I gave our ritual answer, smiling in return.

Immediately he frowned, gazing sharply at me. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Are you hurt?"

"A couple of broken ribs," I said. "They're not bad any more. They're … over a week old."

"Idiot," Faramir snapped. "Why didn't you tell me about that before I hugged you?"

"What about you?" I queried, eyeing him critically and finding a few visible signs of recent combat. There was a fading but still sore-looking bruise on his right cheekbone, and a distinctive straight, horizontal scab across his nose, where the nose-guard must have cut him while his helmet fended off some glancing blow. "Are you hurt?"

"No," he answered, "no new wounds of any consequence. The arrow wound is healing very well; it hasn't troubled me for days now."

I studied my brother's face, and a knot of worry deep within my heart was eased. He seemed, indeed, almost in full health, his cuts and bruises notwithstanding. He was too pale still, perhaps. But he looked worlds improved from when he had set forth with the army a fortnight before.

Faramir greeted Svip, who had remained in horse form, and who nodded in reply to him. Pippin, by contrast, was beaming as Faramir asked how he was, and he answered enthusiastically, "I'm very well, thank you, My Lord!" Éomer King and I exchanged greetings, and a hearty clasp of hands.

Then we could no longer delay speaking of darker matters.

"You have heard about Father?" I asked.

An all-too-familiar haunted look appeared on Faramir's face.

"Aye," he said. "Eradan was just now telling us. But, I have known – or, I have almost known, I believe, since the night that it happened."

Before I could ask Faramir anything further on that subject, Éomer put in, "My Lords, I grieve with you the loss of the Lord your father."

He hesitated, struggling not to insert his personal concerns into the solemnity of the moment. Then he lost that struggle. He said, "Forgive me, My Lords – Lord Boromir, can you tell me how things fare with my sister?"

"Your sister is well, Lord Éomer," I assured him, "and I believe that you will find her at the White City. She is like to be at the barracks of the Rohirrim on the Third Level; or if she is not there, you will at least find there news of where she is."

The grin that spread across Éomer's countenance was a sight all too rare in these times. But there was news that I too must seek. And there were questions that, just as Éomer must have done, I grimly dreaded to ask.

"What news can you tell us?" I began. "Uncle Imrahil …?"

"Uncle Imrahil is very well," answered Faramir, smiling faintly once more. "Or he was, at least, at the time of our departure." Faramir continued, his voice growing stronger and more resonant as he spoke, "The news is that we are victorious. A great battle we fought before the Black Gate. But although our Men fought valiantly, we cannot claim that the victory was our doing alone – or even that it was primarily ours. Boromir – " my brother paused then and shook his head, with a smile of wonder. "I still can scarce believe that we can truly say this. We had the victory because even as our forces clashed before the Gate … the Dark Lord fell."

I nodded. "We have heard something of it here," I said. "And we saw something of it as well. On that morn, we saw a great shadow rise up above the Mountain of Fire, and the ground shook as though in an earthquake, although no damage was found. And since that day we have seen no trace of fire in Mordor's sky."

"Yes," Faramir said. "In truth, you probably saw more of it than we did."

"Aye," agreed Éomer. "I think all that most of us saw was the ground, as we were flung from our feet."

"Boromir," my brother continued softly, "and Master Peregrin, this news is for you as well. The Ringbearer and Master Samwise are safe."

I found that I could not speak. It was all that I could do to swallow back the sudden lump in my throat.

Pippin managed to find speech first. He asked in a voice that wavered on the edge of tears, "You're sure of that? Have you seen them?"

"I have. Mithrandir and the Great Eagles found them and carried them in safety from the slopes of Mount Doom, even as it was crumbling in flame. They are with the army. I am sorry; there is little more I can tell you. I had only a brief glimpse of them when they were brought in to camp, and they were unconscious then. Lord Aragorn was tending to their hurts when Éomer and I set forth. But I spoke with Mithrandir, and he said there is every chance that they will recover fully. I do not think he had any fear for them then. If Mithrandir believes in their recovery, I feel certain that we can believe him."

"Yes," whispered Pippin. "Yes, that's true. Well – that's all right, then." Our young friend gave a brief, choked-off sob. Immediately he rubbed one hand across his eyes, then he grinned up at us and said, in only slightly shaky tones, "Wait till I tell Merry. I can't wait to see the look on his face."

I patted Pippin's shoulder, and I asked Faramir, hearing my own voice shake a little as I spoke, "What news of Legolas and Gimli?"

"They were well when we parted company." He smiled and added, "When last I saw them they were disputing which of them had slain more enemies in the battle at the Black Gate. But the debate, I think, was more in friendship than in rancour."

For a moment Faramir collected his thoughts. He went on, "The plan of the Captains was to march to Cair Andros and re-take the fortress, if the enemy should still hold it. Then they planned to continue on to the White City. I could not bring myself to remain with them longer once the great battle had passed, for I knew that evil had befallen our father. I feared it might also have befallen you."

"There is much that we must tell each other," I said to him, reaching out and gripping Faramir's arm. "Do you need more rest before riding on to the City?"

Faramir shook his head, and Lord Éomer told us, "If you wish to ride on ahead, My Lords, please do so. I will remain here and follow when our troops have had time to water their horses."

So Faramir remounted his steed that one of our soldiers had been holding for him by the riverbank. The horse gave the usual dismayed whinny and nervous sidelong glance as it drew near to Svip. I got back onto Svip, and this time it was Éomer King who lifted Pippin up behind me, after first bowing and asking if Pippin would permit Éomer the liberty of helping him.

We set out for Minas Tirith, following my River-bound route along the shore. Svip kept a wary distance from Faramir's horse, in the hope that he could avoid distressing the beast, so we had to raise our voices somewhat to converse. But for the majority of that ride we were silent, as each of us grew lost in his own thoughts.

Faramir inquired after Svip's health. Svip vouchsafed that he was well, in the brusque tones that had become usual for him in these recent days. The shapeshifter volunteered no further information, and Faramir cast a glance of question and worry at me. I could only give a helpless look in reply.

As they had done for this week past each time I returned to the City, the trumpeters at the Great Gate sounded the welcome for the Steward. Faramir started in surprise on hearing it. Then he looked over at me with a shaky smile.

I did my best to smile back at him. I tried not to think of what he would say when he learned that as far as I was concerned, that fanfare had sounded for him, not for me.

We parted from Pippin and Svip on the Fifth Level, at Faramir's townhouse. Pippin asked my leave to find Merry and bring him the news of Frodo and Sam, which leave I gladly granted. Svip – his tones still flat, but with more interest than he normally evinced these days – asked Pippin if he could go along. To this Pippin gave his ready assent. As Faramir and I watched the big grey horse start down the street once more, with the Hobbit perched upon his back, the hope raced through my heart again that for Svip all would yet be well.

The joyous welcome that Faramir received from the people of his household was inescapably muted by grief at our father's passing. Their greetings came with as many tears as smiles. Faramir offered his handkerchief to Dame Kunegund his cook, who had been nursemaid to both of us in the distant past. The good woman brushed aside his offer and hurried away, drying her tears on her own sizeable handkerchief, to fetch the tea that Faramir had requested.

We made our way to Faramir's chambers. He quietly closed the door behind him. Then he glanced about him in a dazed, distracted fashion, as though the familiar spaces were suddenly become unknown to him.

As his gaze lit on me, he shook his head and murmured, "It is so odd … not to have to report to him. It is so odd … not to be planning what I will say to him … not to be worrying over what he will say to me …"

His expression crumpled as I remembered it doing when he was a little boy, when nightmares sleeping and waking left no other refuge but tears. "I cannot believe it, Boromir," he whispered. "Oh, gods, I can't believe it is true …"

I reached him in two steps and pulled him to me. I held him close as he sobbed, the bitter, broken sounds surrounding us as though there were no other sound in the world.

At length his sobbing quieted and stilled. He drew away from me, rubbing the tears from his face with an angry, shame-faced look.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm behaving like a fool."

"No, you are _not_ behaving like a fool," I snapped at him. "Gods damn it, brother, don't ever let me hear you say that again."

"_You_ aren't crying," he pointed out.

"I did my crying a few days ago. And I will probably do more. Right now, I don't think I have any left."

He accepted that, with an apologetic half-smile. Taking a big, shaking breath, he nodded toward his balcony and said, "Let's go outside."

The sun was far along in its journey to the west of us, but the gleaming stone of the benches still radiated warmth from the noon's sunlight. We said little as we waited for Dame Kunegund and the tea – which, when she brought it, she had accompanied with sizeable portions of the poppyseed cake that was Faramir's favourite in his childhood.

When Kunegund had departed, we did not touch either tea or cake. His expression resolute and very grim, Faramir said, "Tell me everything."

I could think of several places where I could begin the tale. All of them would be more or less telling the story backward. At last I determined to begin with our assault on Father's Tower chamber, the discovery of the _palantir_, and what followed.

As straightforwardly and with as little emotion as I could, I made my way through our fight in the Tower and Father's subsequent collapse, the chase through the woods, and the battle with the Orcs at Ostoher's Hill.

Faramir spoke little as I recounted these events. He only watched me, with a tense and haunted look. But when I was relating Pippin's account of our father's last battle, he hissed in a breath and said, "That is what I saw. I must have seen it at the same time as it happened. How long ago was it, again?"

"Ten days ago," I said. "It must have been … the early morning hours of March the Twenty-Fifth."

Faramir nodded. "Yes," he said, very quietly. "That's when I saw it. It was two nights before the battle at the Gate. _Night oft brings news to near kindred_," he added, quoting the old saying. Then he shivered and went on. "I couldn't sleep, so I was visiting the guard posts. When I had left one post and was walking to the next, I began to hear … Father's voice, shouting our battle-cry. I heard sounds of combat all about me. I heard shouting in Orcish. Then I saw it, as well. It was dim and murky – you mentioned the bonfire that Svip and Pippin lit; I suppose that's the light I saw. It seemed as though I were the one fighting, though I knew that I was not. I saw Orcs rushing up a slope toward me – I saw myself, it seemed, firing down at them, then throwing my bow aside when they got too close. I heard Pippin cry out; I saw myself cut down the Orc who was rushing him. I heard other voices shouting our battle-cry. I thought I heard you, but I couldn't be sure. I saw myself fall, then fight back to my feet again. I saw Orcs fall as I swung at them, and I kept hearing Father shouting the battle-cry. Then – then there was nothing."

For the moment that followed, Faramir stared into nothingness. I reached out and grasped his hand. He blinked and tried to smile at me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Faramir, I'm so sorry."

He took a deep breath, and nodded. "It was all I could do not to turn back for Minas Tirith that very night. I was certain – I was almost certain that Father was dead. But I didn't know what might have happened to you. I thought I had heard you fighting, but I wasn't certain of it, I hadn't heard enough to know … I kept thinking of it over and over, trying to bring on another vision … trying to see what had happened to you after – after Father fell. But I've never been able to bring on the visions; this time wasn't any different. As soon as some order was restored after the battle, I told Aragorn why I had to return home at once. Éomer was eager to learn how Lady Éowyn is faring, so he asked permission to return as well. We set out the morning after the battle."

"You didn't – " I began hesitatingly, "you didn't sense anything of what Father was thinking, or feeling?"

"No," he whispered. "Nothing. I only heard. And saw."

He squeezed my hand tightly and tried to smile again. Then he freed his hand from mine and poured himself a cup of tea. His hands were shaking.

"The tea'll be cold by now," I said. "Want me to go get some more?"

"It doesn't matter." He swigged the tea in a couple of swallows, put down his cup and then stared blankly at the slabs of Kunegund's poppyseed cake. He tore off a piece of the cake, looked at it for another moment and put it back down on the plate.

"Go on," he said to me quietly. "What happened then?"

I sighed and poured myself a cup of the cold tea. I told him what I remembered of our return to the River, and what I remembered and had been told to me of the River's part in carrying me to the western shore.

"Valar," Faramir murmured in wonder. This time he did manage to smile. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at that, should I? That sort of thing happens to you all the time, these days."

"Something like that," I said.

I frowned, for there were several portions of the story that I hadn't yet told to him. Some of them, I knew, would hurt him more than any he had yet heard.

"Faramir … there's more. One thing that's been some comfort to me at times, as I've thought of it … Father knew his death was coming. He saw it, before the Orcs attacked. I didn't realise it then, but I'm certain of it now. He knew it, and I think … I think he enjoyed that last fight. I think he enjoyed doing everything he could to get Pippin and Svip and me out of it alive – and knowing he didn't need to worry about anything else. I think he enjoyed not having all of Gondor to worry over, for once. Not having to think of anything except the fight."

"I hope so," Faramir whispered.

"He said something," I went on, "just before Svip first smelled the Orcs. He told me that if I made it home and he did not … he wanted me to tell you that he apologises."

My brother stared at me, all the colour seeming to drain from his face.

"Apologises?" he repeated. Grief and anger warred in his face and his voice. "Apologises for what?"

"That's what I asked him," I said. "He wouldn't answer me."

Faramir stared a moment longer. Then he shook his head, with a short, bitter laugh. "Of course he wouldn't! Valar forbid the Lord Denethor should deign to explain himself! Apologises," he said again, and I winced at the angry sarcasm of his tone. In that moment, he sounded very much like our father.

"He apologises, and that's supposed to make everything all right? That's supposed to make up for the last thirty years?"

"It doesn't," I said. "I know it doesn't. But … is it better than nothing? Would you prefer it if he'd left no message for you at all?"

"I'd prefer it if – " he began furiously, then his words ran out. "I don't know," he muttered, staring down at his hands. "I don't know. I'd prefer it if he'd cared enough to apologise to me for anything when he was alive. Preferably, to my face."

"I know," I said. "I know it doesn't help. But – he did care, Faramir. Or he wouldn't have said anything."

"Maybe," Faramir snapped. "Maybe he just wanted to leave me guessing, as always. Maybe he just wanted to leave me asking myself whether he loved me or despised me!"

"He did not despise you!"

"How do you know he didn't?" my brother shot back at me. "Did you see a vision that told you so?"

"I know it because our father was not a fool!"

Then I could only shake my head. I said to him desperately, "He loved you, Faramir. There was just ... just some damned stupid reason in his mind why he couldn't let you see that."

Faramir gave a sound between a laugh and a sob. "He did a damned fine job of hiding his love." He sighed, and for a moment he closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Boromir," he said, when he opened his eyes again. "It isn't your fault. It's never been your fault." His gaze wandered to the tray with the tea things, and he asked me apologetically, "Do you want some cake?"

"No," I sighed. "Thanks. Kunegund will have to live with the disappointment of us not eating it."

"I don't think she'll be surprised."

"Faramir … I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. There's more that I have to tell you. It's worse. It's a lot worse."

Watching me warily, Faramir nodded, and waited.

I took the tale back to my earlier encounter with our father, and his revelation to me of the eighty Rangers' mission and their fate.

My brother listened to me as pale as death. His eyes burned as he watched me and his lips were clamped mercilessly shut against whatever words he might have uttered.

Only once in the tale's recital did he speak. He grated out "Who were they?" when I had miserably recounted what our father had said of the Rangers' loss.

Upon my answer that they had been Damrod Son of Daeron's Company of the Ithilien Rangers, Faramir sprang to his feet. Like a caged beast he paced thrice the small space afforded to him by his chambers' balcony. Then he stopped and turned suddenly to me.

"I asked Anborn where they were," he began. His tone wavered on the edge either of weeping or of roaring fury. "He told me they were part of the garrison left to patrol the Pelennor, and I believed him … I suppose that is what Father told him. Gods damn it!" he yelled suddenly, smashing one fist into his other hand. "Gods damn him!"

I leapt up and grabbed Faramir's shoulders, uncertain of what I should say, if anything. He gazed at me with an icy coldness like our father's in his eyes, and he said, "It's a good thing I learned of this after Father was dead."

"Faramir," I said, "I'm certain it was not his doing alone. Sauron's influence led him to it, through the _palantir_. He would never have done this in his true mind."

Faramir pulled away from me and sat down again on the bench, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands. "I wish I could be sure of that," he said.

"You can be," I insisted, sitting down beside him. "We both can be. Father's whole life was spent in trying to win more security for our people, not in throwing away their lives. He would not have done this of his will alone, I _know_ that."

"He was a strategist, Boromir," Faramir said, taking his hands from his face but not looking at me. "A commander of Men. A commander's duty is to know when some few of his Men must be sacrificed for the good of the kingdom."

"Not like this. Not when there wasn't any chance. When did he ever choose the desperate strike instead of a solid defence? I should know; I argued with him enough over that, through the years! Faramir, this was Sauron speaking to him. It was Sauron speaking to him always of the Ring, telling him all was lost without it, telling him that with it, there was hope."

Faramir looked at me then, bleak misery in his gaze. "We should have seen it, shouldn't we?" he whispered. "_I _should have seen it. How difficult could it have been for me to see? How many times have I read of the Seven Seeing-Stones? How hard could it have been for me to realise that the Stone of Minas Anor was still here?"

"I've thought of it too," I admitted. "I think we attribute too much power to ourselves, if we give ourselves the blame for that. What was there for us to see? How should we have seen and stopped it? He didn't show any sign that he was not himself – did he? – until the end. When did he let us close enough to see any trouble to him; did he ever share with us any of his sorrows or fears? I didn't know 'till he collapsed in the Tower that he'd been wearing armour under his clothing every day for five years! If he wouldn't let us close enough to him to know _that_, how were we to know that the Dark Lord was speaking to him in his Tower chamber in the night?"

"That's true," said Faramir, with an anguished smile. "If he wouldn't share his troubles with the son he loved, what chance did I have?"

I stopped myself from launching into another diatribe about how our father had loved him. There were more urgent things to tell him. And we would have our entire lives, I thought, to argue about that.

"Faramir," I said, "there were four survivors of Damrod's company." As his eyes widened in disbelieving hope, I hastened on. "Amyntor Son of Kænmar, Sirnir Son of Steinthor, Sæmund Son of Dagfari, Hunthjof Son of Eythjof. They're in the Houses of Healing; they were brought in only the day before yesterday, by the Men you sent back from the Desolate Lands. Amyntor told me that the battle took place at the crest of Ephel Dúath. The four of them had made it to the edge of the foothills, but it's doubtful they would have made it much farther. Sæmund and Hunthjof were the more badly hurt, and the other two had stopped to care for them. Amyntor set out on his own to try and summon help; he had collapsed by the road, where Zvonimir's troop found him. All of them were wounded and feverish, and when they were brought to the Houses even Amyntor and Sirnir were weakened to the point of danger. The Warden tells me that all four are out of danger now. But if the troops you sent had not found them …"

Faramir murmured wonderingly, "We nearly didn't send them. Lord Aragorn suggested that they should be sent to Cair Andros, to re-take it if the enemy still held it. I argued that our duty was to hold the line at Minas Tirith, and that they should be sent to join the defence of the City."

"It's a good thing you did," I told him.

Faramir nodded, looking stunned. Then he pulled together his thoughts. "I have to go to them." He stood, and I did the same. "I'm sorry, Boromir," he went on distractedly. "I know we need to talk more … but I have to go to my Men …"

"I know you do," I said, gripping his arm. "It's fine, don't worry. We'll talk again. Perhaps at daymeal tonight? Here, perhaps, if you don't mind me inviting myself over?"

It had occurred to me that the conversation yet to come should take place on Faramir's territory. In no way did I wish him thinking that I had staged the encounter on my own ground – or worse, on territory that we both thought of as Father's – when I set before him the reasons why I believed he should be Steward.

He blinked at me in surprise. "No, of course I don't mind," he said, "if you have the time tonight. I understand if you don't …"

"I have the time," I said.

Faramir hugged me briefly and then turned and set out almost at a run, into and across his chambers and down the stairs. I followed more slowly, wrapped in my thoughts.

As I crossed his bedchamber I paused to look at the painting on the wall: a portrait of our mother, with one-year-old Faramir on her lap. It was painted at the same time as the family portrait of all four of us together that hangs in the great hall of my own townhouse, and as the portrait of Mother, Faramir and me that is displayed in the Portrait Hall of the King's House.

I gazed at the quiet happiness in Mother's storm-grey eyes, at the contemplative look of her smile – and at the very much broader smile on Faramir's infant face. And I sorrowed, as I had when Faramir moved from the King's House into his own household when he turned eighteen, to know that there was no portrait of our father in Faramir's home.

There were portraits of Mother, Faramir, me, and of Éoflæd. But there were none of the Lord Steward Denethor II. I grieved at that even though I knew that no one was to blame for it except our Lord father himself.

I stopped at the kitchen to warn Dame Kunegund that Faramir and I would take the daymeal at his house, and to apologise to her for not eating any of the cake. Her eyes still red from weeping, Kunegund tried to look disapproving and said, "Well, I suppose _you're_ not likely to waste away any time soon. But your brother, now, he's skin and bones. You're to make sure he eats something tonight, you hear me?"

"I will endeavour to do your bidding, Madam," I said, bowing low.

Our old nursemaid snorted at that, but could not quite restrain a smile. "Oh, get along with you. You've got more important things to do than chatting up an old woman."

I protested that nothing could be more important, and she ordered me to be gone if I expected to find my daymeal ready in time.

I went through the Fifth Level's tunnel and to my own townhouse. I let them know that I would not be dining at home, and then took myself to my study and a duty that I had been avoiding: writing in answer to the piled-up letters of condolence for our Lord father's death.

There were letters from our people in all walks of life, and indeed from all corners of the realm. Most, to be sure, were from our people in Minas Tirith. But even in these times the news of Father's death had spread swiftly throughout the kingdom. There were letters sent from all of the southern Outlands, from each of our fortresses along the White Mountains' chain, from lords and farmers, soldiers, fishermen, tradesmen, merchants and housewives; even a few letters from children.

I could have left the answering of the letters to Gavrilo, or to any of the army of secretaries in the Steward's household. Yet if these people had taken the trouble to write, in the midst of the disruptions that the war had wrought in all of our lives, it seemed that I must at least make the effort of answering them in return.

A great many of the letter-writers were unknown to me. But there were also some whom I knew, and not only lords and guild-leaders among them. Young Holgar and his comrades Captain Cirion, Thorolf and Buslai all had written. So also had old Sergeant Brynjolf, Buslai's father.

I remembered, on reading Brynjolf and Buslai's letters, that I intended sometime to pay a visit to the retired Sergeant at his home on the Fourth Level. Perhaps I would do that, I thought, when the refugees had returned to Minas Tirith. From what Buslai said of how his father loved regaling the neighbours with Boromir stories, the old Man would want to be sure that I visited when plenty of his neighbours were there to witness it.

A few hours later my hand ached from writing and my brain felt numb from penning my thanks and from reading countless expressions of grief. I put aside my writing materials for the night and went to watch the sunset from the roof of the White Tower.

I have said that I went to watch the sunset. But in truth my gaze was drawn more frequently to the east, where I still looked for the red darkness that no longer marred the skies of Mordor.

As I watched the evening's shadows settle gently over Anduin and the Pelennor, I asked myself one last time if I would stand by my resolution to relinquish the Stewardship to Faramir.

I thought, _Húrin__ of the Keys at least would be happy as a lark, if I went back on my decision._

I did not think that Svip would blame me much for changing my mind, though he'd likely be disappointed that I'd not be able to visit him as frequently.

As for the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, I thought that I could certainly give up any thought of wooing her, if I changed my decision now. To be sure, she had told me she believed that my people would still gladly follow me, and that the choice I had made was not the only road I could follow. But I was under no illusion that Éowyn would hold as high an opinion of me as I could hope that she did now, did I reveal myself as a Man who wavered on matters of the greatest moment and who could not make up his mind.

I would forfeit, I thought, any chance with her; but I had put little effort into the suit as yet, and of course I had no guarantee of success in any event. My concern not to appear with feet of clay in Lady Éowyn's eyes should not be what decided me, if I was truly considering keeping my hold upon the Stewardship.

_But I'm not, _I realised. _I am not truly considering it._

Faramir, I knew, would not thank me for this. I was far from looking forward to the conversation that awaited us. But that did not change my conviction that this was the right course for us to take.

I watched the last gleams of the sun disappear behind Mindolluin, and the shadows of night spread like a blanket over the lands of Gondor. Then I made my way down the Tower stairs, and to the Fifth Level and my meeting with Faramir.

He looked, of a certainty, better than he had when we had parted. His visit with the four survivors of Damrod's company had gone a long way toward restoring some calm to his mind, though it was too soon by far to hope that he could be in any peace.

I do not remember what meal Dame Kunegund served to us that night, although we did more justice to it than we had to the poppyseed cake.

While we ate I asked Faramir to tell me more of Mordor. He did so, and his descriptions of that blighted land were all the more terrible for being told by one who loved so well the flowered woodlands of Ithilien – the land that Mordor must once have resembled so closely.

The vision his words painted of Sauron's realm was no land that anyone would long to visit. And yet I caught myself feeling a wistful pang at the thought that I could never go there.

It would be good to see those lands someday; to take part perhaps in winning some small portion of them back to the uses of Men. I suppressed a sigh as I thought of the many lands I would never now see; the many journeys I could never undertake, for their pathways led more than ten miles from Anduin's shores.

_Put a cork in it, lad, _I impatiently ordered myself. _Be grateful that you live to undertake any journeys at all. Would you rather be providing daymeals for the fishes of the Great River?_

Faramir paused for a drink of his wine. Then he asked me, turning the conversation away from Mordor's wastes, "We haven't spoken yet of any of the arrangements for Father's funeral or your accession. Have you set the dates for them yet?"

"Aye, well," I answered reluctantly. "I thought we'd wait 'till you finished eating, for that. Kunegund told me to be sure you eat a decent meal."

My brother raised his eyebrows. "Why," he asked, "do you think discussing the arrangements is likely to put me off my feed?"

"It might do," I muttered. But there was clearly no way I'd be able to avoid talking about it for much longer, now.

"What is the matter with you?" Faramir demanded of me, frowning. "My gods, brother, you can't possibly have anything _more_ hideous left yet to tell me."

"No, probably not," I said, shrugging and trying to look calm. "I do think maybe you ought to brace yourself, though. I don't think you're going to like it."

"Oh, for gods' sakes, Boromir. I assure you, I am braced. Just tell me."

"All right," I said. "I haven't set a date for the Ceremony of Investiture yet, and there's a simple reason why I haven't. It's because I have no intention of taking office as Steward. I am resigning the stewardship in favour of you."

For a very long moment Faramir only stared at me. Then he breathed in utter disbelief, "You're _what_?"

"I want to resign the stewardship, Faramir, and I want you to take it."

He still stared, and he hissed, "_Are you out of your mind?_"

"No," I said. "No, I promise you, I am not."

I told him then of the revelation that had come to me as I stood by the bier of Steward Boromir I, in the House of the Stewards. I told him of my vile helplessness when I strayed too far from the River in the chase after Pippin and our father.

I sprang from my chair and began pacing the room, and I think that I was nearly weeping as I spoke of my determination that Gondor should have the leader she deserved, and of my conviction that this Man was not me, but Faramir.

"Stop it, Boromir!" Faramir cried out suddenly, jumping to his feet. "For Valar's sakes, stop. You're not thinking straight; you don't know what you're saying. You're still grieving for Father; you don't want to think about having to take his place. But that is _your_ place now. Father knew that, and he would never grudge it you. He was proud and glad, _always_, to know that when he left this Middle Earth, it was you who would bear the White Rod of the Stewards. It gave him hope to know that one day you would be the Steward."

I sighed and shook my head. "I promise you, little brother, I _am_ thinking; I _do _know what I'm saying. This isn't grief, it is good sense."

My brother still stared at me in pleading and disbelief. I struggled to find the right words to express my thoughts.

"I want the Stewardship," I said. "You know that. I have always wanted it – well, I wanted it if there was some way I could have it without Father dying. But I _have_ wanted it; I've dreamed of it and planned for it. I still want it. But not at this price. Not at the price of giving Gondor a Steward who cannot venture past a tiny strip of our domains; not if I will be a Steward who must linger at home like an invalid, who can never be where our people need him to be unless that should happen to be within ten miles from the River!"

"Gods damn it, Boromir, listen to you!" Faramir snapped. "You're talking like a spoiled child. You can't be the sort of Steward you dreamed you'd be, so you won't be Steward at all!"

He slammed his fist down on the table, startling me a little with this most un-Faramir-like expression of anger.

"What you're saying is nonsense," he insisted. "That 'tiny strip of our domains' runs the entire length of the kingdom! You can stay within ten miles of the River and journey from the Northern Marches to the Mouths of Anduin! How many of all the Stewards – or the Kings before them, for that matter – ever spent more than a few months of their reigns in Anfalas or Lamedon or Ered Nimrais? No one expects that of you; no one will care that you cannot be there! Our people love you, and they must be thanking the Valar every day of their lives that you were spared to return to us and to take your place as Steward!"

"They love you, too," I replied. "They will follow you every bit as gladly as they would follow me."

"They should not have to follow me. They are _meant_ to follow you." He shook his head in exasperation and raked his fingers through his hair. "You say you're talking good sense; well, you aren't. You aren't at all. What kind of sense is it for the Stewardship to be taken from a Man who _does_ want it, and hurled onto the shoulders of a Man who doesn't?"

"You may not want it," I argued, "but you will do it well. You will probably do it better than I would, even if I didn't have to stay by the River."

"Oh, would I!" he exclaimed furiously. "How do you reckon that?"

I answered him, "You are every bit as good a commander as I. Our Men will follow you to hell, and farther. Damnation, they followed you to Mordor, didn't they, what more proof of that do you need? You've seen as much of the business of ruling as I have. You've spent more time than I have in meetings of the Council. You can be diplomatic with Elves and Southrons and everyone else in between, where'd I'd probably stick my foot in my mouth and land us in another war. You aren't only a warrior, you're a scholar – and gods know I have never claimed to be that. You know the past of our country and of our world, and with that knowledge you can lead us to better days. Damn it, Faramir, _I _know all of that! Why can't you know it too?"

For some moments he was frowningly silent, and I permitted myself to hope that I might actually have convinced him. I should have known better. One point about him that I had neglected to mention was that my little brother can also be every bit as pigheaded as I am.

His expression one of melancholy thought, Faramir sat down at his place at the head of the table, and refilled both our goblets with wine. He held out my goblet to me, but he still did not speak. I accepted the goblet, took my seat by him and waited.

At last my brother asked me in quiet tones, "Do you realise that you are doing this because of Aragorn? Or have you hidden that from yourself?"

I raised my eyebrows at him and took a long swig of my wine.

"I suppose I must have hidden it from myself," I answered. "Tell me, O Insightful One. How am I doing this because of Aragorn?"

Faramir was watching me with an analytical look, as though he were holding a bet with himself on how much of this he could say before I exploded in anger.

He stated, "You don't want to be the one who decides whether he will be King. And so you've found a way to put that responsibility on me."

I told myself that I would just have to surprise him by not doing any exploding, this time.

"That's a hell of a stretch," I said. "Whether you or I are the Steward, we will not be the ones who decide whether Aragorn is King. That decision belongs to the Council, not to us. Why then should I fear it so much that I would cast away the Stewardship to avoid it?"

A faint, mournful smile touched his face. He said, "Because it is the Steward who must place the crown upon the head of the King."

"And?" I inquired.

"And that's what you don't want to do. You don't want to do it because you're afraid of what our father would think of you."

I took another drink. "Am I?" I asked.

"Yes. You are. You don't want him to look at us from the Undying Realms and see you crowning Aragorn King. You don't want to hurt Father's feelings, so you've found a way to get out of it and put the responsibility on me."

He gave a sudden, harsh laugh and drank deep of his goblet. "Father hates me already," he said, smiling bitterly. "So it won't be any surprise to him to see _me_ handing over Gondor to the one Man he hates more than me!"

"He doesn't hate you!" I shouted, leaping back to my feet. I grimaced miserably as I realised what I had said, and remembered that I should have used the past tense. "He didn't hate you," I amended, a great deal more quietly. "He didn't hate you."

Faramir looked away from me. I sighed and sat down by him again.

"Listen, Faramir," I said, keeping my voice quiet this time. "If I were really just worried about what Father would think of me, then there's no way in Middle Earth that I would give up the Stewardship. I would hang on to it tooth and nail, and I'd do everything I could to stop Aragorn from being acclaimed King. If Father's opinion were really all that mattered to me, then I would fight Aragorn's kingship with every means short of civil war. Isn't that true?"

Finally Faramir looked at me. "Yes, all right," he said. "All right, that's probably true."

A new, rueful smile quirked at his mouth. "So it is not Father who concerns you the most in this. It is Aragorn himself. You want me to be the Steward, because you don't want to risk having to play second fiddle to Aragorn."

I snorted at that. "I've spent all my life playing second fiddle to Father," I observed. "Why should it bother me to continue being second?"

"Perhaps it is not the thought of being second that troubles you," Faramir said softly. "Perhaps it is thought of being second to him."

I found that I did not have an answer to that. Faramir saw that clearly enough, and he went on, pressing his advantage.

"Suppose that the Council does acclaim Aragorn King. Do you think you could live with being his Steward? If you didn't have this dependence on the River, if there were nothing stopping you from being the Steward you want to be – could you place the crown on Aragorn's head and be the Steward for him?"

For a long time I just looked at him.

"Damn it," I said at last. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."

Faramir looked infernally smug. I downed another swig of my wine.

"You're as frightening as Father ever was," I grumbled. "You know that, don't you? Have you got a _palantir_ hidden away somewhere showing you the thoughts of all Men?"

He smiled in a hint of apology. "I don't see all Men's thoughts," he said. "Just yours. But you haven't answered me. Which ones of my amazing insights were right?"

"What, you'll admit that maybe not all of them were?"

He rolled his eyes at that, and I sighed again and stared into my wineglass. I tried to sift through my thoughts, and through everything that he had said.

At length I said, "I didn't want this to be about him. I wanted it over and done with before Aragorn should return and stake his claim. I want to resign for my own reasons, not on account of him. I do not want Men saying that I resigned in protest of his kingship, or for anything to do with him!"

"Men will always talk," Faramir said.

"Yes, they will. But they may talk less if I have resigned and you are invested into office before the Son of Arathorn requests leave to address the Council."

Patiently, Faramir waited for me to go on.

"You are right," I said at last, "I do not want to place the crown on Aragorn's head. I won't fight his kingship, if the Council choose it. Gondor has been through enough without that. But I do not think I could physically make myself crown him."

I groaned a little and leaned back in my chair. "I _know_ I could not be his Steward," I continued, "not without the two of us fighting like cats and dogs for the rest of our lives. It was bad enough on the journey from Imladris. I damn near choked on my bile, the number of times I had to force myself not to curse him six ways from Eärenya for being the arrogant, pompous, sanctimonious prig that he is. If I had to be his Steward, I'd … I'd bloody well burst from rage. I'd end up killing him, or myself, or I'd just go mad. Seeing him in Council, dealing with him as one of his captains, that I think I could handle. But to be his Steward …"

I shuddered at that, only partly in jest. "You have to take the Stewardship, Faramir. For the sake of Gondor. _You_ would do fine as his Steward, if it comes to that. The two of you should get on like a house afire."

Faramir laughed suddenly, a sound that seemed as rare to me as it was good to hear.

"Why?" he asked. "Because I'm also an arrogant, pompous, sanctimonious prig?"

"No," I told him, "you aren't arrogant."

He shook his head, chuckling. Then slowly his face turned solemn once more.

"Be serious, Boromir," he said. "Please. Is that the only reason you want to give up the stewardship? Because if it is, then I will never accept it. I know you," he continued urgently. "You're the strongest and bravest Man in Middle Earth. If you had to – for the sake of Gondor – then you could learn to be Aragorn's Steward. I think – Valar's blood, given enough time, I think you would even learn to like him. Both of you are valiant, noble Men. And both of you love our country. With that much in common, I know that you could make peace with him. I know it."

"My sweet little brother," I said. "You have always been an optimist about the goodness possible in Men."

He started to speak again, but I held up my hand to stop him.

"Let me finish. No, that isn't the only reason. It is true what I said. I will not take the stewardship knowing how I'm constrained by my dependence on the River. Gondor needs a Steward who will be wherever she needs him to be; who will do whatever she needs of him. And it's all very well to say that only a handful of our Stewards have been in full health throughout their reigns, or have spent more than a fraction of their reigns beyond the walls of the White City. That's true. It's also true that I will not add to their number. I will not take the White Rod knowing on what a fragile thread my health and my life hang. I will not."

"Boromir," he murmured, "you stupid, bloody fool."

"Maybe," I answered, smiling and taking a drink. "Maybe it's also true what you said before. Maybe I am being a spoiled child. But gods damn it, if I cannot be the Steward that I dreamed of being, then I will be none. And I cannot be what I dreamed, no matter how you look at it. Perhaps I would be a reigning Steward who can't venture more than ten miles from the River. Or perhaps I would be the Steward to our returned King. I will not accept either of those choices. I will be a captain of Gondor, neither more nor less. I will do what I can for our country. And I know myself well enough to know what I cannot, and should not, do."

"Gods damn it," whispered Faramir, gazing desperately at me. "What can I say to convince you?"

"Nothing," I told him, clasping my hand about his shoulder. A thought struck me then, and I asked him suddenly, "Do you know what the problem is?"

Faramir gave a questioning frown.

"I'll tell you," I said. "In every argument we've ever had, you've always known that you were right. You've known you were right because you had wisdom behind you; you had your learning and your understanding and your insights into the souls of Men. You have all that, and you always think before you act, and _I _have got my over-weening pride and my ambition and I always lose my temper at the drop of a hat and go straight into battle frenzy."

My brother was staring at me open-mouthed. He clamped his mouth shut; then he said in a surly tone at which I could not help grinning, "You're talking nonsense. I do _not _think I'm always right."

"If you'll forgive me," I said, "_I_ think that you do. And you'll oblige me by considering that I might be right, this once."

He gave me a look of outrage. I smiled and went on. I was enjoying this.

"You've always known that you were right. And I'll admit, that's annoyed the hell out of me. What annoyed me the most was the fact that you usually _were_ right. But not this time," I told him quietly. "This time I _have _thought it through. I've thought it through for a week. I've discussed it with Svip, Húrin and Lady Éowyn. They've told me their thoughts on it; I've listened to them and to myself. And I am certain of this. The next Steward of Gondor must be you, Faramir, not me. That is the way it should be. The way it needs to be."

"Gods," murmured Faramir. "Oh gods, Boromir, why are you doing this to me?"

I put my hand on his, trying to think of some sort of halfway decent apology. Faramir gently put my hand aside, then he stood up and started to pace.

This time he was not pacing in a fury, as he had been on his balcony earlier in the day. He paced slowly, frowning in thought, and I held my peace and did not disturb him.

I finished the wine in my goblet and decided against any more. If Faramir and I got through this discussion without killing each other, I hoped to call on Éomer King before the evening had passed, and ask him to consider me a suitor for the lady his sister.

At last Faramir's pacing stopped. He turned to me, and he spoke in a voice that held anger, warning and pride.

"If I do this," he said, "if I do what you want, and say that I will be Steward – then I must _be_ the Steward, in all truth. You must not let me do this, if there is any chance that you will change your mind. I cannot live doubting you. I will not live with the dread of it, wondering whether you regret this choice, asking myself always if you want the stewardship back. If there is any chance that you may change your mind, then tell me that now. You will keep your birthright, and we will not speak of this again."

I stood, and faced him. "I will not change my mind," I said. "I swear it to you on my Oath of Fealty to Gondor. You will be my Steward and my Lord. And I will follow you with all my heart."

He gave a long, quiet sigh at that. I walked over to him and clasped his arms.

"I wish you hadn't said that," he whispered, smiling shakily at me. "I hoped so much that you would change your mind."

"I know," I said. "I'm sorry."

I wracked my brain for what else I could do or say that might reassure him I meant what I said, when told him I would follow him as my Steward without regret or change of heart.

I said, "I will swear my allegiance to you now, Faramir, if you wish it."

"No," he said vehemently. "No, I do not wish it. There'll be oath-swearing enough and to spare, in public. We don't need it when there is only us."

For a long moment Faramir was lost in thought. Then he said, "I don't know what I should do now."

"You should meet with Húrin of the Keys, for a start," I suggested. "He knows about this, as I said; he stands ready to do whatever he can to help. I can meet him with you, if you wish, but I don't have to be there – "

"Of course I want you to be there," he cut in flatly.

"Then I will be. We can meet with him tomorrow morning, if you like. We should probably call a special meeting of all Council members that are here, and announce this decision to them. As soon as that is done, we should be able to proceed with Father's funeral, and your accession. It's best, I think, if both can be completed before … before Lord Aragorn returns and seeks leave to present his claim."

Faramir nodded, his gaze frowning and distant.

I added, "I suppose Aragorn _is _planning on making his claim. Do you know?"

"No," Faramir said, still frowning. "He and I did not discuss it. But – yes, I believe he will. I can see no reason for him not to, now."

"Yes," I said. "I think you're right."

"Uncle Imrahil I discussed it several times," he told me, "on the way to Mordor. We formed a plan that if, by any unlikely chance, we should survive our attack on the Black Gate, and if Aragorn should live, with the battle won … then Imrahil was going to speak with him. He was going to ask Aragorn not to return to Minas Tirith. To put aside his claim, for the sake of Gondor – as he did once before. Imrahil believed that Lord Aragorn would understand the need to do so again."

I thought about that. "Aye," I said, "perhaps he would. Though I'm not certain that Mithrandir would be so easily convinced. Or Lord Elrond, for that matter. It does seem that the Elf Lord has a hankering to be the father-in-law of a king."

Faramir looked impatient with me at that, but he did not comment on it.

"After my vision … we agreed that Imrahil would not speak with Lord Aragorn until he learned how things fare in the White City. When he learns of Father's death, I think he will not choose to discuss the matter with Aragorn. With Father gone, there is little cause for him to do so."

I sighed, and nodded. "Yes," I said. "Yes, that's true."

Faramir's thoughts left our claimant king behind. His eyes grew distant once more. Then he shook his head.

"Steward," he murmured, as if in amazement, "Steward!"

His gaze came back to the present, and he scowled at me. "You owe me for this, Boromir," he said threateningly. "I hope you realise that. "You owe me for this, and I will not let you forget it!"

"I am your obedient servant, My Lord," I answered, bowing to him. "Now and always."

"Oh, shut up," said my brother. A sudden concern sparked in his eyes, and he asked, "You're not going to do something bloody stupid like running off and becoming a hermit, are you? If you do, I will never forgive you."

"No," I said, smiling, "no, I promise I am not. I will continue to serve to the best of my abilities, at your command."

"You had best watch out," he said gruffly, desperately trying to keep the conversation on a joking level, "or I will make you Captain-General of the Sculleries."

I started to bow to him again, but Faramir pulled me into an embrace instead.

When we stepped apart, his expression had again turned bleak.

"I had better go to the Hallows and pay my respects to Father," he said, with sorrow and bitterness in his tones. "After that, I think I will turn in. There … will be much to do tomorrow."

"Will you be all right?" I asked him.

He mustered up a weary smile. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I will. I promise. Goodnight, Boromir."

I gripped his arm once more. I knew that I should apologise to him again, and thank him, and I knew that there were not words enough for what I owed to him.

"Thank you, Faramir," I said, with all my heart. "Goodnight."

As I made my way down the Hill of Guard, my emotions were as jumbled a collection as can be imagined: joy and relief, combined with concern for my brother – and with, I will confess, a certain degree of apprehension regarding the mission to which I now turned.

At the barracks of the Third Level, where the troops of Rohan had been housed since the siege of the City was lifted, Éomer King and the lady his sister were walking together in the courtyard, deep in quiet and earnest speech. They were near the courtyard gate, and both of them saw me almost as soon as I stepped within.

Lord Éomer's face brightened in delight. The lady's expression, as usual, was far more cautious and restrained. But I believed that I saw her blush slightly, in the torchlight, and I thought – or perhaps I hoped – that I could detect some welcome in her gaze.

I wondered, if my quest here were eventually crowned with success, whether I would ever come to feel that I could accurately interpret the Lady Éowyn's expressions.

I told myself, _At least it is a worthy goal to aim toward._

Éowyn told her brother that she wanted to check on the progress of some horses that had been injured in the battle with the Orcs at Emyn Arnen. With a low, graceful curtsy she bade good evening to Éomer and to me.

I said to Éomer, "If you have a little time to spare, My Lord, there are matters that I would discuss with you in private."

"Of course," replied the King of Rohan.

We walked to the chambers that had been placed at his disposal, the best-appointed officer's quarters that these barracks could provide. As we walked, I said, "I'm sure Húrin of the Keys must have mentioned this to you already: if you wish for other quarters, there are many guest chambers in the King's House, all of which are at your disposal."

"Yes, he did mention it. Thank you, cousin. As I told him, this is what I prefer. I may have become the King, but I still feel like the Third Marshal of Riddermark. Besides, there has never been much distance between Rohan's people and her king. I do not want that to change."

We reached Éomer's quarters, and the Horselord asked me if I wished for wine.

"No, I thank you," I said. "Not at least until we've spoken of what has brought me here."

Just as with the lady his sister, I knew that I could not broach the question of my suit until Éomer King was made aware of how matters stood with me. Briefly, then, I gave him a summation of what had transpired: my decision that my dependence on the River necessitated stepping down in favour of my brother, and Faramir's reluctant acceptance of the Stewardship.

The King of Rohan stared at me in shock. He blurted out, "I am sorry to hear that, My Lord." Immediately he realised that this might not sound quite right, and he hastened to add, "Not that I believe Lord Faramir will be any other than a noble and valiant Steward. But, My Lord, so would you. And you have trained for it all your life. It can have been no easy choice for you to make."

_The choice was easy enough_, I thought. _Getting Faramir to accept the choice was not!_

"I believe that it was the right choice," I said. "And I believe that, after some argument, I have convinced Faramir of it, as well."

Éomer frowned, seeking the proper thing to say in these far from usual circumstances.

"I hope you do not think, My Lord," he began in troubled tones, "that there would be any lessening in the cordiality that exists between our two countries, whether it be you who holds the White Rod of Office, or the Lord your brother. Both of you, as well I know, are Captains strong and honourable. I can see no reason why Gondor and Rohan should not continue upon the closest of terms, even as they did under the King my uncle and the Lord Steward your father."

"I thank you, Éomer King," I told him. "I assure you, I do not doubt that."

The young king strove manfully to remove the frown from his face. He did not entirely succeed. He began again, "If there is anything I can do to be of assistance to you or your Lord brother, during this transfer of power …"

"There is a request that I would make of you, My Lord," I said. "But it is not upon matters of state that I would speak. I thought it proper that I inform you of my altered situation and prospects, before discussing this matter. Éomer King, I request that you do me the honour of considering me as a suitor for the lady your sister."

I had thought that I'd shocked Éomer with my earlier revelation. But this time I had truly knocked him for a loop.

His mouth dropped open and stayed that way, and he blushed in confusion as great as though I proposed paying my addresses to him rather than to his sister.

_Something tells me,_ I thought, _that this courtship will be over before it's begun._

"Lord Éomer," I said, when he seemed unlikely to manage any reply, "I have no wish to cause you embarrassment, or to cause any friction between our two countries. If such a suit would not be welcome, you have only to tell me, and you need not hear of it again. It will be as though I had not spoken."

"No, no," protested the unfortunate young Man, losing for the moment his kingly dignity of speech. "That is not it at all!"

Again I waited for further explanation from him, and again there was none. "My dear cousin," said I at last, "it is plain enough that there must be some impediment to considering me as the Lady Éowyn's suitor; else you would not be standing there gaping like a fish."

The Horselord finally succeeded in shutting his mouth. "There is no impediment, My Lord," he stated emphatically. "Your suit would be an honour to our House, and I will gladly give my consent that you should pay your addresses."

"But …?" I prompted, unable to resist smiling at his thoroughly miserable look.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and grimly met my gaze. "But," he said, "not two days ago, on our return voyage from the Black Gate, Lord Faramir asked of me the same question."


	24. Chapter 24: Departures and Returns

Author's Note: My humblest apologies for letting this story go without updates for over three years, and _thank you_ to everyone who's emailed me asking for the story to continue. Many things in "real life" have intervened in those three years, including a move from Virginia to Massachusetts, a new job, and – last but decidedly not least – the birth of our twins, who are now eight months old. (I did resist giving our son the name "Boromir" as a middle name, but I nearly did it – perhaps that can be his nickname!)

I've been working on this off and on throughout those years, but the chapter kept getting longer and longer and never seemed any closer to getting finished. What you see here is, in fact, only the first third or so of what was once intended as one chapter. And I'm afraid that not really much happens in it, which may also be one reason for my difficulty in writing it. I have to keep reminding myself that there are, after all, some chapters in Tolkien in which not much seems to happen, but yet those chapters are still worth reading.

So, I hope some people are still interested in reading this, and that it does not disappoint too badly. And perhaps, I hope, the excitement of posting this will spur me to add more, sooner rather than later …

Chapter Twenty-Four: 

Departures and Returns, Part One

Several moments passed before I was able to speak.

"I see," I managed at last. "Thank you for telling me, Lord Éomer."

The King of the Horselords watched me keenly, clearly expecting further comment. It must have grown obvious that he might be waiting a long time. He ventured, "Pardon me for asking, My Lord; does this news have any impact on your request?"

I fought to think whether it had any impact or not.

"No," I said. I tried to pull myself together as I noticed the dazed tone in my voice. "No, I think it does not. Not yet, at least. I must speak with my brother, of course, but … I think you may be assured that Lord Faramir's request and mine stand unchanged."

"In that case, Lord Boromir," Éomer went on with new intensity, "you will permit me to inform Lord Faramir of your request before you speak with him of the matter?"

The urgency in the young Man's tones served to steady my thoughts.

"Of course, My Lord," I told him, smiling a little at his near-to-panicked expression.

The Rohirrim, as I reminded myself, are firmly bound by tradition where such matters of etiquette are concerned. Here in Gondor, not since my great-grandsire's day or even earlier has any lady's guardian been so concerned with being the first to inform all suitors of any rival suit. Strictly speaking, that is still the proper way to proceed, in Minas Tirith just as in Rohan. But no Man of Gondor save the most fanatical traditionalist would lose sleep these days over disregarding that convention.

For the Horselords, it is a different matter entirely. I do not know why it should be thus, but the fact remains that such rules of behaviour are still of deepest import to the Men of Rohan – as my young cousin Éomer was now demonstrating.

"If I may make a suggestion, Éomer King," I said, "please delay meeting with Lord Faramir on this until the first thing tomorrow. Already this has been a sorely trying day for him. He spoke also of wishing to pay his respects at our father's tomb tonight."

"I understand," Éomer said, with a nod. "I will not intrude upon him this night. Tomorrow morning I will inform him of your suit; then all will be as it should be."

I thought, _All will be as it should be, except that my brother and I will have to decide what to do about the fact that we've proposed paying our addresses to the same woman._

_Wait till __the news of this gets around!_ I thought. The wits among our friends had submitted Faramir to no little jesting before, when he'd declared his wish to marry my wife's younger sister. If their mirth had been roused then by the jibe that the little brother was slavishly following his big brother's footsteps, how much more cause of laughter would they find now in the case of we two brothers courting the same maiden?

_Let them laugh,_ I told myself. _Any potential jests by our friends are likely the least of our worries!_

Éomer and I shook hands and bade each other goodnight. The King of Rohan set out for the barracks' stables in search of the lady his sister. I started toward the gate, to make my way back up the Hill of Guard. But when I had gone only a few steps across the courtyard, a familiar voice hailed me.

"Hullo, Boromir! Come join us."

The voice was Merry's, from the Fourth Level's wall. I looked up to the wall and saw the pinprick glints of the Hobbits' pipes gleaming out from the night's shadows.

Of a sudden I realised how little I wanted to go back to my house just yet. Nothing awaited me there save to sit and worry, and to wonder what would come of my next morning's conversation with Faramir.

Gladly I crossed to the stairs and climbed to join my comrades.

The torches along the wall showed them clearly as I approached, but I could as easily have found them by following the smell of the Halflings' pipe smoke. Svip was with them, lying on his front along the top of the battlement, with his head resting on his arms. Pippin sat on top of the battlement as well, swinging his feet, and between the two of them in one of the crenellations sat Merry.

I sat down beside the crenellation and leaned against the battlement. Pippin greeted me, "Hello, Boromir. I'm afraid we don't have anything to offer you; unless you'd care to try a puff of Longbottom Leaf."

I smiled at that. Barely an evening had gone by, along the long road the Fellowship travelled together, that Pippin and Merry did not try to convince me to join them in their pipe-smoking.

"I'm afraid not, my friends," said I. "I'm as incorruptible as ever."

Pippin grinned as he launched into the familiar argument. "It is _not _corrupt. It's a perfectly respectable pastime. Gandalf does it; what better recommendation do you want?"

"Believe me," I said, "Gandalf does a lot of things that I don't plan on trying."

"Well," Pippin admitted, after a contemplative puff, "I suppose there is something in that."

This night Merry was not in the mood to join the venerable debate. He said quietly, "We were talking of Frodo and Sam. Do you think they'll be all right?"

It is always touching to realise that someone believes you have all the answers. Unfortunately, the people who believe that are inevitably wrong.

I said, "Pippin knows as much on that as I do. You heard what Faramir said of them, Pippin. I fear there'll be no help in asking Faramir for more news, either; he had such a brief glimpse of them. But – you'll be tired of hearing this, no doubt. But you Hobbits have more strength and resilience in you than we Big People would ever imagine of you. That Frodo and Sam live at all is more than we could have dared hope. If they had the strength to come through Mordor alive, then they have the strength to recover their health now. Yes," I realised, "yes, I do think they'll be well."

I heard Pippin sigh. Merry took a long draw on his pipe, then he stared up at the sky. "Thank you, Boromir," Merry said at last. "I hope you're right."

Svip joined in then with a quiet question of his own. "When your friends are well," he said, "when you're with them again, what do you think you'll do then? Do you think you'll go home?"

The two Hobbits were silent. Hesitatingly Pippin began, "I don't know what they'll want to do. Sam would want to go back to the Shire, I think – or, he'd want to go back if Frodo wants to. But Frodo … you'd think he would want to go back. But after everything he's gone through, everything that's happened, who knows what he'll want, at all. As for us – "

Pippin stopped for a moment. Then in reluctant tones he went on, "As for me, well, I'm your sworn liege man, aren't I, Boromir? I don't really see how I can be much use as your esquire if I'm back in the Shire."

Guiltily I remembered that I'd not yet told the Hobbits anything of my resignation from the Stewardship. And as Pippin had told me, he had sworn allegiance to the Steward of Gondor: to the Man who held that office, rather than to my father or to me.

"I'm sorry, Pippin," I said, "I should have told you earlier. But Faramir only agreed to it tonight. As you are the Steward's esquire, then I am no longer your lord. I've resigned the Stewardship to Faramir."

Pippin and Merry stared at me. Pippin asked, "Why?"

Once again I explained my reasoning. I told them also a little of what had transpired earlier that night, when I'd convinced Faramir to take the Stewardship.

The Hobbits and Svip listened to me in silence. When I stopped speaking, Pippin burst out impulsively, "Are you _sure _you don't want a bit of a smoke? It sounds to me like you need a good pipe, after the day you've had."

"No, truly, believe me," I said, surprised into laughter. "I am perfectly happy with what I can smell of yours." Sobering again, I told him, "I'm sorry, Pippin; I'm sorry to go and resign on you the minute you thought you knew where you stood in the world. But you mustn't worry. Faramir and I both will support whatever you want to do. I know that Faramir would gladly accept your allegiance, if that's what you want. But neither he nor I would hold you to your oath, if you want to go home to the Shire."

Pippin stared down at his pipe. "Thank you," he said, very quietly. "I don't know what I want to do. What about you, Merry?" he asked, trying to sound more cheerful. "Do you want to go home?"

Merry answered in surprisingly angry tones, "I could answer that better if I knew where home _is_." As we all three stared at him, he went on. "I've got the same problem you have, Pip. Of course I'd like to see the Shire again. But I swore myself to Théoden King's service, and then to Éomer. I don't want to go back on that oath, _ever_. When Éomer and Éowyn and the rest of them go back to Rohan, maybe I'll go with them. I don't know."

I ventured, "Éomer and Éowyn will think on this as I do, Merry, I've no doubt of it. They value your friendship and would be sorry to see you leave. But _because_ they value your friendship, they would never wish to stop you from returning home. If that is what you want."

"I don't know yet," Merry said. "Not yet."

Pippin put his pipe back in his mouth, and gave some musing puffs. "It wouldbe good to see the old places," he murmured. "Just for a visit, maybe. What's it gotten to be now? Early April? The snowdrops are probably come and gone already. There may be some daffodils out – or nearly. Just think: it's a year ago now that Frodo first started acting strange, and talking of leaving the Shire. Think of it, Merry! To think that a year ago, we didn't know about any of this. We didn't know about Gondor, or Rohan. We didn't know – any of it."

"They've got spring flowers in Gondor and Rohan too, you know," Merry said testily. But for all his determination, Merry was no more immune to thoughts of home than was his cousin.

"It would be good to see the place," he admitted. "The asparagus should be ready to pick. I should like to do a little fishing on the Brandywine. And to stop by the Golden Perch when it's warm enough for them to set up the tables outside …" He broke off his reminiscences suddenly and exclaimed, "Curse you, anyway, Peregrin Took! You had to go and remind me of things, just when I was thinking I might not mind never going back!"

"Sorry," Pippin said. But the spell of reminiscences was not yet broken. Svip spoke up with musings of his own.

"The rivergrass starts blooming around this time of year," he said. "And the yellow leaves come down the River from the Elf-lands. Sometimes when the leaves flow over Rauros it seems the whole waterfall's turned to gold. There's more water in the River, too, from the snow up in the mountains. When I lived above the waterfall, every now and then a chunk of ice would get all the way to near the falls without melting. That was one of the first things I ever tried to collect; a big shining piece of ice, bigger than my hands. My mother had the hardest time explaining to me why it had turned to water, after I brought it inside to store it in her house."

An edge of worry crept into his voice. "I wonder how my collection is. It _should _be safe; I think I've lived there long enough that my house shouldn't be withering yet, not when I've only been gone a month. It _ought_ to be all right."

I did not know what to say. I wanted to offer some sort of reassurance. But any such attempt would be only empty words, and Svip would know it. I knew nothing of the house-plants of Svip's people. How then could I tell him that all would be well, that his house and his collection would be safe and waiting for him when he returned home?

I thought, _I ought to tell him to go home. I ought to tell all of them that._

Pippin blew a small smoke-ring that ghosted above the wall for a few paces before fading into the night. The young Hobbit gave a quiet sigh. He said, "What about you, Boromir? There's not any place you wish you were, is there? You're already home."

I pressed my hand against the smooth marble of the wall, picturing the seven Circles of the White City rising up before my eyes.

"Yes," I whispered. "Yes, I am." My voice and my resolution grew in strength as I went on. "And so should you be. All of you. All of us fought for our homes, against the darkness. Why should I be the only one to return to the place that I love? Your homes survive because of the victories that you and our comrades have won. Your homes survive, and you should go back to them."

"It's not that simple, Boromir," Meriadoc said flatly. "Maybe it was that simple before we left the Shire. It isn't any more. It won't ever be again."

The sound of half-heard voices drew our eyes to the courtyard below us. Éomer King and the Lady Éowyn had stepped from the stables and were walking now toward the Barracks gate, deep in conversation. I looked away from them swiftly; for no very logical reason, but probably to assure myself that I was not staring at the lady.

"Do you need to leave, Merry," I asked, "to escort Lady Éowyn to her quarters?"

"No," he said. "She gave me the night off, when Pip brought the news of Frodo and Sam."

Pippin was gazing contemplatively down at his pipe. "I have come to that momentous time of the evening," he said portentously, in a reasonable imitation of Mithrandir, "when the question comes whether to re-fill one's pipe, or to call it a night."

I thought again of how little I wanted to go alone to my townhouse, to contemplate whatever might be said between Faramir and me upon the morrow.

"Why not re-fill your pipes at my house?" I suggested. "My cellar is reasonably well stocked, if you fancy a drink along with your Longbottom Leaf. It will not, I'm sure, take the place of the Golden Perch. But you are welcome. You as well, Svip. I've not yet repaid you in kind for the wine you shared with me at your house. I'd like you to share a bottle with me, if you will."

"No," said Svip, his voice sounding flat and sullen once more. "I'll go back to the Fountain."

The two Hobbits and I exchanged worried looks, but none of us thought it wise to try and dissuade him.

Pippin and Merry accepted my invitation, and we set forth to make our way up the hill. Svip left us at the gate to my townhouse, his feet slapping hollowly on the cobblestones as he trudged toward the Sixth Level's gate.

Pippin, Merry and I passed a pleasant evening. The halflings fumigated my Great Hall with their pipeweed while we shared a bottle of Dol Amroth white. Their reminiscing mood continued, with Merry mellowed enough by the wine that he made no further dark comments.

They spoke of friends and relatives back in the Shire; of Frodo's odious relations the Sackville-Bagginses and of how Merry, Pippin and Frodo had conspired to deprive them of the celebrated Baggins wine cellar when Frodo sold them his Hobbit hole. By evening's end I am certain I knew more than any other Man in Gondor of the taverns in the Shire, though I was still sadly lost in trying to keep track of how Pippin and Merry were related to the multitudinous Hobbit families they mentioned.

When we had emptied the bottle of wine, my young comrades and I strolled up to the Citadel, Pippin returning to his room in the King's House, and Merry to Lady Éowyn's chambers in the West Guesthouse. I bade them good night in the Place of the Fountain, where Svip, as I had suspected, was still awake. The Hobbits called their goodnights to Svip and to me and betook themselves to their beds, whilst I sat down on the wall of the Fountain.

Svip had not answered Pippin and Merry, but he swam silently to the Fountain's edge, watching me with the distant, wary gaze that had become so bitterly familiar from him.

A message from Faramir had awaited me, when the halflings and I arrived at my townhouse. In it my brother appointed the Third Hour past the sun's rising for our meeting with Lord Húrin of the Keys.

I knew full well that I was like to spend the entire day in meetings. It was this prospect that brought me now to Svip's side.

I told him what the morrow was likely to hold for me, and I asked if he would go to Osgiliath tomorrow in my stead, to guide the Men in recovering what should be the final submerged remnants of the Great Stone Bridge.

"We can raise the last of the stones tomorrow, I'm sure of it," I said, "with you there to guide the operation. Then that part of the project, at least, will be complete. Once the stones are all raised, the Stonemasons and the troops can begin construction on the bridge without us there to guide them. And that will be a very good thing," I added ruefully, "as with the start of Faramir's reign, my life is like to turn into one long Council meeting."

"You want me to go without you?" Svip asked guardedly. "Will the Men follow me, without you there?"

"I'll send a message to Captain Eradan tonight, letting him know you'll be commanding the retrieval operation in my place. But I am certain there would be no trouble, even without such a message. You have been as much a part of this project as I have, Svip. The Men will trust you to lead them."

"I don't like leaving you for that long," Svip muttered. "You're sure you'll be all right?"

"I'll be all right. I won't leave the City without you. I will be in no danger, I promise you."

He did not speak for such a time, I felt certain that he would refuse the request. But at last his brusque answer came, "All right. I'll go after our swim tomorrow. Good night."

"Thank you, Svip," I said, as he swam back to his stone pillow at the centre of the Fountain. "Good night."

In melancholy mood, I returned to my townhouse, where I penned and sent the message to Captain Eradan. It was not yet late, but it was late enough that I felt I could justify retiring to bed, to avoid spending further waking hours in the company of my thoughts.

That goal, however, was one that I failed to meet. I spent much of the night in unremitting wakefulness, my mind turning like a waterwheel through the questions of what I should say to Faramir, and what we should do.

* * *

After our morning's swim, Svip and I parted company at Waterfront. He set out swimming upriver to Osgiliath. I rode back to the City on Fengel, brought with us from my stables.

The stolid horse of Rohan seemed entirely at ease with Svip these days. I sighed at the thought that Lady Éowyn's training of the horses, though successful, would yet come to nothing, when Svip went through with his plan of returning home to Rauros.

Drawing nigh to Faramir's townhouse I met with Éomer King, just walking out through the gate. I dismounted, we bowed and exchanged greetings, and the young Horselord hastened down the hill – apparently as keen as I was, to avoid speaking of the matter that had brought him there.

Húrin of the Keys, and his secretary Miroslav Son of Yaromir, were already with Faramir in his study when I arrived. Seated at his desk, my brother greeted me with a wan and harried-looking smile.

As I tried to smile reassuringly back at him, I wished for a moment that I had withdrawn my suit when Éomer asked me of it.

Faramir had more than enough confronting him now. The last thing he needed was for his brother to be seeking in marriage the same maiden he hoped to wed.

I thought that Lord Húrin had an anxious look about him as well, as he stood by Faramir's desk with his fingers drumming nervously atop a mountain of venerable leather-bound documents. Young Miroslav the secretary, for his part, merely looked wide-eyed as he sat with his travelling desk taking notes, impressed I suppose at being in the presence of history-making decisions.

Faramir said to me, "We've just started. Have you brought your resignation with you?"

"I have." I handed to Húrin the leathern folder that I had been carrying. The Lord of the Keys drew forth my resignation and read it over in thin-lipped, frowning silence.

"All seems to be in order, My Lords," he said then, replacing the document in its folder and handing it to Miroslav. "Copies will be made and brought to you for your signature, Lord Boromir." Húrin did not quite achieve removing the frown from his face, but he clearly knew that all time for debate and protest was passed. "I take it the copies should receive extended distribution?"

"Yes," I said. "To be posted throughout the City and sent to all manned garrisons."

Húrin nodded briskly. "If it meets with your approval, Lords," he went on, "a session of the Council will be called for tomorrow at the Third Hour, to present the matter of Lord Faramir's succession. Due to the need to move on with the business of government, and the unusual number of Council members in or near the City, I think it will be sufficient to summon all Councillors now within the Rammas? We need not wait for summons to go forth to the Outlands?"

"I think that is correct," agreed Faramir. "For the first full session of the Council, of course, we will need to send the summons. But for this, I think we need not. With the King of Rohan and the Captains of Anórien already on hand, we have sufficient to make this a valid meeting."

"Very good. Then, as to the scheduling of the Lord your father's funeral …"

Lord Húrin broke off for a moment and shook his head. Faramir studied our troubled-looking Keeper of the Keys, and said gently, "Will you sit? Both of you, for the Valar's sakes," he added, glancing at me. "You don't need to wait to be asked; we're not in the Tower Hall here, you know."

"Thank you, Lord Faramir," Húrin muttered, as we pulled chairs closer to Faramir's desk and sat. Húrin still had his head ducked, and was staring at his hands. "I do not mind telling you, My Lords," he went on at last, "I have been as nervous as a kitten, trying to get my head around all of this. It's not every Keeper of the Keys who has to plan events of this magnitude. My father, you know, never had a Steward's funeral under his jurisdiction; he only succeeded my grandfather in the sixth year of Lord Denethor's reign."

Húrin nodded to the stack of books that sat on Faramir's desk. "I've been reading the last several centuries of my office's records on the funerals of the Steward. I keep fearing I will miss some vital detail, and everything will go to hell in a handbasket. Begging your pardon for saying so, My Lords."

Faramir smiled. "You shouldn't worry yourself over it, Húrin," he said. "I know that I speak for my brother as well as myself, when I say that we have full confidence in you."

"It's true," I affirmed. "We will leave the planning in your hands with no hesitation or concern."

Lord Húrin looked downward again, scowling in what seemed to be embarrassment. "Thank you for saying that, My Lords," he said. "I hope to prove worthy of your trust." He cleared his throat and hastened on.

"You know, of course," he said, "that by tradition, a Steward's funeral can only take place in either the dark of the moon or at the full."

I did not know that, in fact. I had never studied up on it, and I was too young at the time of my grandfather's death to have noted such details. I thought back, however, and a memory did come to my mind: of standing by my father's side during the vigil at my grandfather's tomb, until I fell asleep on my feet in the small hours of the night and was led away to my bed. I was almost certain I remembered the cold glare of the moon, shining in through the high windows and turning every Man's face as pallid as those of our fallen ancestors.

Húrin went on, "The next full moon is now only two days away. It would give only brief time for preparation; but as it is now eleven days since the Lord your father died, I think that none would count it unseemly haste. For practical reasons also the earlier option has merit, since none of the Steward's or the Council's actions can carry the full force of law until the funeral of the Steward's predecessor."

Faramir nodded, deep in thought. "It makes sense," he said. "There is more logic in moving forward now, when we can, than in delaying the decisions of government for another two weeks." He looked questioningly at Húrin and at me. "Was our grandfather's funeral at the dark of the moon or the full?"

"At the full," I said, then I asked Húrin, "was it not?"

"Aye, My Lord," he said, "it was."

Faramir decided, "Then let our father's be the same. Who is to take part in the ceremony?" he asked the Lord of the Keys.

"That will be for you to decide, Lord Faramir," Húrin replied. "Traditionally, the parts would be spoken by selected members of the Steward's household; by you, of course, and by Lord Boromir as the Steward's Heir …"

"You forget, Húrin," I cut in, more brusquely than I had intended. "I am no longer the Steward's Heir. I have renounced all claim to the Stewardship, for myself and all my line."

"Forgive me, Lords," said the Keeper of the Keys, looking in surprise from me to Faramir and back again. "Will you not be Lord Faramir's heir? Since the succession has not been taken from you due to any misdeed, I presumed you would remain as heir until Lord Faramir has a son."

"Oh, bloody hell," I exclaimed, feeling my face turn red as I realised that I'd overlooked that aspect of things entirely. "I never even thought of that. There are other options, aren't there?"

Faramir gave me a look of pitying disgust. "Yes, there are other options," he said. "But none of them as good. Shall I not choose you over one of Imrahil's sons? Which is the wiser choice: a Man who has trained to be Steward all his life, who has commanded the forces of Gondor and has their trust and love? Or a boy who has scarce yet seen any combat, who's never been north of Dol Amroth save on holiday, and who'd probably get himself lost if he were ever set loose on his own in the streets of Minas Tirith?"

"That's not fair," I objected. "None of the boys would get lost. They know you just have to look for the White Tower, and walk downward if you want to go downward, and up if you want to go up!"

"Aye," countered Faramir, "and is that the only requirement for the Heir of the Steward, that he should know which direction is up?"

"All right, Faramir," I sighed, "you're right. I will stay as Heir, if you wish it. But you'd best not tarry about getting an heir of your own. I don't fancy being the Steward's Heir for my entire life!"

"I am doing my best on that," Faramir snapped. "It is not an entirely trouble-free process!"

"Oh. Yes. Sorry," I said contritely, realizing far too late that it was a tasteless thing to say in our present circumstances.

Húrin of the Keys was looking bewildered, while his secretary concentrated hard on the papers before him. "My Lords?" Húrin asked. "Would you like us to leave, and return at a better time?"

"No," Faramir said. "My brother and I have finished arguing."

We returned to the planning, Húrin extracting from his stack of documents several copies of the schedule he'd drafted for the funeral, and of the parts which were to be spoken during the ceremony. After Húrin talked us through the order of the ceremony, it was agreed that he would return to wait on Faramir later in the day, after Faramir and I had time in private conference to make the decisions required of us.

As Lord Húrin stood to take his leave, Faramir said, "There is one other matter for consideration. Boromir, before you arrived Húrin told me that the commanders of the Ered Nimrais garrisons, and of some of the southern Outlands, have sent to us repeatedly, asking if the evacuees from Minas Tirith and Anórien may be permitted to return home. I have thought of it, and I am inclined to allow it – at least for those of Minas Tirith and the Pelennor. I would say that we should not yet permit any returns to north of the Rammas, until we have news of how the Army is faring. But here and through the Pelennor, it seems, there should be safety enough. What would you say to this?"

"Yes," I said slowly, as I thought of it. "Yes, it should be well. There have been none of the enemy sighted within striking distance of the City for … over a week now, is that not right?"

"Aye, My Lord," Húrin agreed. "The last of them were seen and dealt with by the patrols two days after your Lord father's death."

"Very well," said Faramir. "Then, Húrin, you may send to the commanders that returns are authorized to the City and as far as the Rammas wall."

"If I may," I put in, "add to your message the urging that those who live north of the Rammas remain where they are until further notice. It will do no one any good if half of North Anórien decides to make a head start on returning to their homes, and end up camped in the City for Valar know how long."

"Yes, Lords," said the Keeper of the Keys, with a weary half-smile. "Thank you. I am glad to have any good news to send, for a change!"

Faramir and I both stood, I helping to stack the Lord of the Keys' documents into a pile that Miroslav the secretary precariously balanced atop his travelling desk. We walked Húrin and his secretary to the door, Húrin bowing low and Miroslav managing a respectful nod from above the stack of books.

When they had departed, Húrin quietly closing the door behind them, I said to my brother, "Perhaps you should suggest to Húrin that he bring two secretaries the next time he needs to tote that many documents around. Troubled though our country has been, I'm sure that Gondor can afford for its Keeper of the Keys to have more than one attendant."

Faramir flopped back down in his chair behind the desk. He shook his head as he gazed at the closed door, then he looked up at me with a bemused, rueful smile.

"Ah, the thrill of power," he remarked. "I little thought my first task as Steward would be to provide encouragement as the Keeper of the Keys suffers a crisis of self-belief."

I grinned a little and sat down again, leaning back in my chair. "That's a secret closely guarded by all Stewards and Steward's Heirs. The Steward's primary role is to be nursemaid to all the kingdom."

"_Now _you tell me."

He smiled a moment longer. Then he sighed, and the sigh turned into a yawn that he tried to stifle behind his hand.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" I inquired.

"A little," he said. "At least, I think I must have. I dreamed last night, of Father."

I looked at him more sharply on those words. But what I saw gave me at least some reassurance. He looked tired and worn, but he did not have the haunted look I have so often seen on him.

"What did you see?" I asked him.

"I think it was just a dream," he said, "not a vision. Just a dream, the kind normal people have." He sighed again, quietly, and ran his hands over his face and through his hair.

"It wasn't anything dramatic. I think I was a child again, and you were away somewhere, and Father had me sitting in on meetings with him, the way he would have you do, if you were there. That's all. I just remember listening hard to try and follow what the meeting was about, and wishing you were there to talk about it with me after the meeting. And I remember the sound of his voice."

I nodded, and swallowed back a sudden thickness of emotion in my throat.

"How are you doing?" I asked. "With – all of it?"

Faramir did not quite manage to smile again. "I am fine," he said. "I am constantly asking myself if all of this is real. But I'm fine."

He glanced down at the documents lying on the desk before him. He asked, "Who of Father's household would you ask to speak in the funeral?"

"Cosimo, certainly," I said, and Faramir nodded firmly when I spoke the name of our father's Seneschal. "He would never forgive us if we did not ask him. And Master Pelendur. What of Hákon?" I asked then, surprised to realise that for a time I had entirely forgotten about the young Man who had been Father's Esquire before Pippin, and who had asked for a transfer to the garrison of the Causeway Forts, when our country's peril drew nigh. "Is he yet with the Army?"

"Yes," Faramir confirmed, "he is with our forces under Imrahil's command. I saw him after the Battle at the Black Gate. He lives, and I would ask him if he were here, but we cannot delay Father's funeral in the hope that he may return in time to take part in it."

I nodded, and began again, "Then, I think …"

I hesitated. But I felt certain that my first impulse on this was correct. "I think we should ask Pippin. It will frighten him, doubtless, and he will not be sure that he is equal to the task. But I believe that he is equal to it. For his loyal service to Father, we would do wrong not to ask him. And … I should like to ask Svip, as well."

"Are you certain?" Faramir asked, frowning. "Are you certain that he could endure it? I thought that he did not seem … himself, when I saw him yesterday. You know him better than I do, but …"

"No," I agreed grimly, "he has not been himself. But it is Father's death that pushed him beyond the bounds of what he could well endure. If we give him the chance to play a role in this closing chapter of Father's life, perhaps it may help to close this chapter for him."

"If you think it is best," Faramir said, "we will do so."

The time was soon coming, we both knew, when we could no longer delay speaking of the matter that had brought Éomer King to Faramir's office. But there was at least one other matter of which we should speak, and I seized on it.

"We need to speak more of Pippin," I said.

I told my brother of the quandary in which the young Hobbit found himself placed; of the conflicting demands of homesickness and his oath to the Steward, and of how the terms of his oath necessitated a second transfer of his allegiance, from me to Faramir.

"It is awkward as hell," I said. "Pippin wants to honour the terms of his oath, and we must honour it also. We don't want it to look like we're fobbing him off from one of our households to the other, making up posts for him because we don't know what to do with him. _And_ we don't want him to think that his oath means he can't return home, if he wishes to."

"It is a maze," Faramir agreed. "It seems that every step must be the wrong one. Let me think on it," he went on. "I should be able to think of some suitable post for him, that will show him due honour but yet not separate him from you. Perhaps I can second him to your service, as Éomer has done in making Merry attendant on Lady Éowyn."

He had spoken the fateful names, and now there could be no longer delay. Bracing myself to finally face this conversation, I said, "I met Éomer when he was leaving your office. He has told you?"

"Yes." My brother gazed at me steadily, but his expression changed to one of doubt and regret. Of a sudden he broke forth, "I would never have sought permission to court Éowyn if I'd known you sought that as well."

"I know that. _I_ would never have asked if I'd known you were going to ask."

He nodded, and for a moment neither of us spoke.

"Did you know you were going to," Faramir asked, "before we left for Mordor?"

"No," I said. "I didn't know. It was not until after Father's death. I went to the Houses to pay my respects at his tomb, and Éowyn was there, paying her respects to Théoden King. It started me thinking … of how close both our houses had come to annihilation. Of how Father was always after me to marry again, and how I had always put it off. It made me think … that I should still try it now, even though he is gone. I saw Éowyn, and I thought of her prowess and her strength and her beauty. And I determined to ask."

Faramir nodded, frowning. He looked as though he wished to speak, but he said nothing.

"Did you know you were going to ask, before you left?" I prompted.

"No," he said distantly, his gaze shifting from mine. "I admired her skill on the battlefield, of course. I respected her determination and courage. But it was only … it was only after the Dark Lord fell, and we saw the flames die in the sky of Mordor.

"I started to think that perhaps there was hope for all of us, for our world. _Real _hope, for the first time in our lives. I started to think of what it might mean for Middle Earth. For Gondor and Ithilien and Mordor; for all of us. I started to think that grasses and flowers might someday grow again in all the places the Dark Lord has tainted. And I thought that I wanted someone by my side, to share that. Someone to bring to my life what this victory has brought to all of us."

I nodded as well, not knowing how to reply.

"Do you love her?" Faramir demanded suddenly, staring straight at me.

The question took me by surprise, though I suppose that it should not have.

"That depends on what you mean by love," I said. "I am not writing sonnets to her eyes, or serenading her outside her window at all hours of the night, if that's what you mean."

He snorted in impatience at that. I schooled myself to answer his question in seriousness.

"I will love her," I said, "if we wed. I respect her and admire her. I do not love her now any more than I did Théodhild, before we married. Yet I will swear that neither Théodhild nor I felt our marriage lacking in love. If Éowyn becomes my wife, she will never lack for tenderness, consideration or honour. I hope you do not doubt that."

"No," my brother answered, very quietly. "I do not doubt that."

"What of you?" I asked, almost as quietly as he. "Do you love her?"

He glanced away from me. "About the same," he said, trying to sound off-hand about it, "about the same as what you said. I have not written any sonnets either. And I am not planning any serenades beneath her window." He looked back at me with a faint smile.

I would have to be as stupid as Faramir has often accused me of being, not to suspect that there was more to his feelings than he was admitting now.

"Brother," I said, "you know I have never been the most sensitive of Men. If there is more than you are saying…"

"No," he said firmly. "No, there is not. We are on equal ground in this, you and I. The question becomes, what do we do now?"

I held back a sigh, only half convinced by his words. But despite my doubts, I thought that the reasoning I'd turned over in my mind for much of the night was still sound.

"I have been thinking of this," I said, "since speaking with Éomer last night. I think we should act no differently than we would if this had not transpired. We should act just as we would were you and I not courting the same woman. Think of it, Faramir! There can be little that Éowyn of Rohan values above the freedom to choose her own fate. What will we be doing if one of us withdraws his suit? We will be taking the choice from her. I do not think she will thank us for that. Whether her eventual choice be you, or me, or neither of us, we do disservice to her and to ourselves if we do not go forward with our suits, and leave the decision in her hands."

Faramir nodded, deep in thought. He said in a hesitant murmur, "Boromir … I don't want this to cause ill feeling between us."

"Neither do I," I said. "If I thought it would, I'd never have suggested it. There's no reason it has to, is there?"

"No. No, there's no reason it has to. We'll just have to see that it does not." He smiled faintly again, trying to joke. "Who knows, she may not be willing to consider either of our suits. She may tell both of us to go jump in the Anduin, and then we won't have to worry about any of this!"

"We don't have to worry," I said firmly. "Worry about what _she _thinks of us, yes. But we don't have to worry about _us_."

"All right," Faramir said, with a deep gust of a sigh. "So we tell Éomer that we wish to continue our suits. And then we see what happens." He sat up straighter in his chair, and pointed a finger at me in warning. "There have to be some rules in this campaign. We have to swear that we won't tell her any embarrassing stories about each other."

I grinned. "What stories? I don't have any embarrassing stories about you. Everyone's been a baby, Faramir; I don't think she'd hold against you any tales I might tell of your bodily functions as an infant."

"_Whatever_ you might tell," he said, "don't. We have to swear here and now: neither of us tells any humorous brotherly anecdotes!"

"Fair enough," I capitulated. "I swear it. No anecdotes. I won't tell any Faramir baby stories if you won't tell her how loudly I snore."

"Ah, well," he said, "the lady really should have that knowledge, in order to make an informed decision …"

"Come to think of it," I mused, "I'm sure there must be _some_ funny stories I can call to mind …"

Faramir grinned, flinging up his hands. "All right, no information on snoring! No brotherly anecdotes. I swear it. Done?"

"Done," I agreed. We shook hands on it, and I told myself, _It _is_ the right thing to do. It does make sense, I'm sure of it. The choice _does_ have to be hers; we'll only make her furious with both of us if we take any of that choice away from her._

It made sense, but I couldn't help thinking there was more to Faramir's feelings than he had told me.

He might not have written any sonnets to her eyes, but I had a worrisome feeling that his sonnets might be lurking there, just beneath the surface.

Faramir and I remained in conference there the rest of that morning, while we talked through the plans for Father's funeral and then moved on to other matters. I summarized for Faramir my days of forcing my way through Father's papers, and handed to him my report on their contents.

I did not mention to him the more personal aspects of those papers: the file Father had kept on potential brides for me, and the all-but empty file on Faramir. My brother, I thought, needed no burdensome sympathy from me on that. He was unfortunately more than used to dealing with lack of attention from our father.

In short order Húrin returned with the copies of my resignation for my signature. As I penned my name time after time, and jammed my signet ring into each copy's dollop of wax, the thought came to me, _This is the first and only time I'll be doing this. After this act of mine, this particular aspect of leadership's tedium is all Faramir's._

When the Lord of the Keys had again departed – and while Dame Kunegund brought us a mid-day meal to accompany our work – our discussion turned to the coming return of our people to their homes.

I told Faramir of the project I had launched to investigate the houses left empty by the centuries' long decline of our City's population. Eagerly he agreed with my proposal that all abandoned houses that were habitable should be opened to returning citizens who could not yet go back to their homes – those of the City whose houses had burned in the siege, and those of the Pelennor whose farms had been ravaged by the enemy.

I told him also of the plans I'd developed for reconstructing Osgiliath. This news he greeted with sympathy but with a realistic doubt that the Council would ever approve such expense.

Faramir set me to organizing the housing for all returnees who were yet homeless. "And," he exclaimed, "there is the answer for Pippin! You said he has already been assisting you on this. I shall tell him I accept his service as Esquire to the Steward, and I will second him to your service in the work of re-housing our people. What do you think? Will it answer the need?"

"I think it will more than answer," I said. "It is perfect. There, you see, Faramir, this is why you had to be Steward! You have the most damned brilliant ideas."

Faramir looked un-amused. "If I had the most damned brilliant ideas," he countered, "I would have thought of a way to get out of being Steward." He sighed. "While you are working on the housing question, I will read through your report and take an initial look at Father's papers."

Before parting ways, as we sat there in Faramir's office both of us penned letters to Éomer, officially informing him of our unaltered intentions.

I tried to squelch the feeling that we were working together on a school project, as my brother and I wrote our letters in deeply-concentrating silence. I did not ask Faramir of it, but I thought of another likely reason why he chose to set Father's funeral for the earlier date.

Tradition forbade us to take any active steps in courtship while we were the chief mourners for a funeral yet to take place. I glanced at my brother as his pen flew across the page, as though he could make the days pass more swiftly the faster he wrote. I had little doubt that he remembered that particular tradition.

"Another thing," Faramir said when both of us had sealed our letters. "We are not to conduct our courtships in each other's jerkin pockets. I have no intention of spending time with the lady with you peering over my shoulders, and I'm certain you'd prefer not to have me hanging on your every word. Each of us is to conduct his courtship independent of the other, and not to speak to the other of anything that transpires. It'd be highly indecorous to give any impression that we were … comparing notes."

"Oh, indeed," I said, unable to resist one last small jibe at the pompousness of his tone. "And the Valar forbid that we should ever appear indecorous." My brother rolled his eyes, and I hastened to assure him, "I agree. Let each Man proceed on his own, with no conference between us. And good luck," I added with a smile, holding out my hand to him.

"And to you," Faramir answered, smiling back. For the second time we shook hands on our bargain.

Faramir had sent for Pippin before we commenced our letters to Éomer. The young Hobbit arrived almost precisely on cue. He smiled shyly when Faramir invited him to come in and take a seat. Declining with thanks my offer of help, Pippin took hold of the chair that Lord Húrin had occupied and hauled it once more before Faramir's desk.

When young Took had boosted himself into the chair, Faramir said to him, "My brother has told me of your oath that bound you to the service of Gondor's Steward. I would be honoured to accept your allegiance under the terms of your oath, if that is still what you wish. But I know that the circumstances under which you took that oath are passed. I will begrudge it not at all should you wish to be released from those terms, to return to your home or to do whatever you will."

Though he'd got into the chair just moments before, Pippin jumped back down from it now and stood before the Steward. "I do not wish to be released from my oath, Lord Faramir," he declared stoutly. "At least," truth compelled him to add with a bit less certainty, "not yet. May I – may I have leave to speak of it with you again, when I know what the others want to do? When – when Merry and I can talk it over with Frodo and Sam?"

"I grant such leave gladly," Faramir said, smiling at Pippin. "Now, will you be seated again if I ask it of you – as your friend, I hope, not as your lord?"

Pippin hesitated a moment. Then he smiled back and once more scrambled into the chair.

With enthusiasm, the halfling greeted Faramir's plan for him to work with me in the housing of our people. The same could not be said for the other request we made of him.

When I had explained to him the basic outline of our father's funeral and the role we hoped he would play in it, he turned from me to Faramir and back again, with a pale and horrified look.

"Oh, no, Boromir," he said hastily. "Oh, no, I really don't think you want me to do that. I'd be certain to ruin it. I was never any good at Elocution in school. You can ask Merry, he'll tell you! I'd always forget what I was saying, and stammer, and giggle, and it just went all pear-shaped. And it isn't just school, it's everything else, too! If Gandalf were here, he'd tell you how I always ruin everything!"

"As much as I respect and admire Gandalf," said Faramir, smiling gently, "my brother and I need no help from him to form our opinions on this matter. And I think you underestimate yourself, Master Peregrin, as well as Mithrandir's opinion of you. I would be willing to wager that your conduct in these months past has greatly raised his estimation of your worth."

"I'll wager you'd lose your bet," Pippin muttered darkly.

"Pippin," I said, "we don't want to pressure you if it's something you truly do not wish to do. But I do ask that you consider it. You can take away with you the segments we're asking you to read; look them over and give us your answer tonight. You would have to memorize nothing; it will all be there for you to read. Have a think on it, but please don't dismiss the possibility out-of-hand. It is your right as Father's Esquire to take part in the ceremony. We would not have that right taken away from you."

"_I _would have that right taken away from me," our young friend sighed. "All right," he said, "I'll take it and look it over. But I do think you're making a mistake!"

Pippin took the documents I handed him, with a look as though he fully expected them to turn into a Nazgûl. The Hobbit and I took our leave of Faramir, and we set to work establishing our Office of Re-housing.

The office itself we set up in the Old Guesthouse, on Rath Celerdain in the First Level. The ancient building had suffered but little from the fires of the great siege. A portion of its roof had caught fire. But it had not burned for long before it was doused by the rain that blew in from the sea, on that morning of battle.

Our repair crews already had that segment of roof replaced. I thought that the grey, weathered Guesthouse exuded as ever its air of comforting familiarity: as of an old and beloved friend, gone a bit to seed from the passage of years, but promising always a heartfelt welcome and a cheerful hearth.

I hoped that our people would feel the same, when they crossed over its threshold as a step in rebuilding their war-torn lives.

In the common room of the Guesthouse we assembled our staff. In the main they were City Guardsmen and secretaries with whom we had already worked in compiling records of the damaged and empty houses in the City. To this force I added another, at Pippin's request: ten-year-old Bergil, son of Pippin's friend Beregond of the Citadel Guard.

"Beregond asked if I could find some useful task for Bergil to do," Pippin confided to me. "Bergil was here, you know, during the siege. He joined one of the fire-fighting crews, here on the First Level."

On that, no more needed to be said. I understood all too well the implications of his statement.

Young Bergil would have been spared nothing of the horror during that day and night of siege. All about him Nazgûl had wailed in the dark, the First Level had burned, and the enemy's catapults had bombarded our streets with the severed heads of our slain.

"He's been pestering his father and the other Citadel Guards no end, ever since," Pippin said. "He's been asking for work in the service of Gondor."

I nodded grimly. For Bergil Son of Beregond, there would be no return to childhood's games – not yet, and perhaps not fully, ever again.

"I'll send for him to join us, if it's all right," Pippin hurried on. "He's a good lad, I'm sure he won't be any trouble. He's been running errands at the Houses of Healing, but the Chief Healer doesn't approve of a child working there, and forbade him to be there now that things aren't so busy in the Houses. Dame Ioreth felt sorry for him and let him stay on, to help out in the laundry, but he says if he has to hear many more stories about her cousin from Imloth Melui, he'll go stark, staring mad …"

I had to grin a little at that. "If Bergil truly wishes to work in the service of Gondor, he'll have to learn to endure worse things than Dame Ioreth's talking. But by all means, send for the lad."

When the young Son of Beregond arrived, wide-eyed and out of breath but standing at attention in his best soldierly fashion, I felt compelled to give him a brief lecture.

"There will be little excitement in this work," I warned him, "and you had best get used to that, for such is often the case in the service of our country. The soldier's lot is often not high adventure and the chance for glory, but rather everyday work, with the greatest danger being boredom. But you must know that already," I added, "from your father's duties."

"Yes, sir," Bergil said sombrely, meeting my eyes. "I understand. I want to be of help."

I had told the boy there would be no excitement in the work we faced, but I found that was not an entirely accurate statement. To be sure, it was not the adventuresome quest of which many a ten-year-old might dream. But there was a solid satisfaction in it, and a sense of purpose and hope. That feeling lightened our steps and brought smiles to the faces of all of us, even in the midst of swearing over the minutiae of the cataloguing system we had to develop, or metaphorically tearing out our hair at the daunting estimates of the numbers we might have to house.

_By all the gods,_ I thought, _it is a joyous day when we can simply work for the betterment of our people, without the constant fear that we will fail to stave off their destruction._

Our secretaries assembled a vast catalogue of all available buildings and rooms, while teams of Guardsmen raced about the City to answer the secretaries' queries and double-check details of the previous reports. Another listing gave all of the houses destroyed in the siege, with information on their owners and residents compiled from the latest Census of Gondor.

The list of destroyed houses was bitter enough reading, yet the number was less than we could ever have dared hope in those black hours of siege. We judged that just over one thousand houses in the First Level were too sorely damaged to permit their residents' return. This translated, very roughly, into four thousands of the people of the City for whom we must find alternate housing.

That, as one of the Guardsmen declared, would be scarcely a challenge. But to increase the challenge before us, we had also our people of the Pelennor to factor into our reckoning.

When my father still lived and reigned, he had commanded a report on the destruction wrought on the farms of the Pelennor Fields. The report gave us a concept of the number and general locations of destroyed and damaged buildings, but more work on the ground was needed, to consolidate that information with the Census records. Thus I dispatched to the Pelennor further teams of Guards and the Steward's clerks, armed with Census reports. They would investigate all the land within the Rammas wall, and complete our knowledge of what losses each husbandman of the Pelennor had suffered.

It would be no pleasant report they brought back, of that I was certain. The initial report and the evidence of my eyes on that day of the battle suggested to me that scarce one in ten of the Pelennor's farmhouses might remain fit for habitation. Many farmers were like, I thought, to have _some_ building left on their property yet intact enough, that they could convert it into a dwelling while they undertook their repairs. Yet many others had assuredly lost everything.

Then there was the question of the devastation wrought to the farmers' fields – but that was a problem for a different day's work.

"We will do well, My Lord," declared Radimir, the chief of our clerks. "Even should all ten thousands of the Pelennor's residents require housing, in addition to those four thousands of the City we must house, we have billets enough for all of them and more." He added, shaking his head a little in wonderment, "I never thought to see the day when I should be glad of our declining population. Did we have now our numbers of former Ages, then this _would _be a challenge. Aye," he concluded, "we will do well."

"Unless," one of his fellow clerks put in, in pessimistic tones, "the people of North Anórien start forth from their havens as well, and have to be put up here until they're allowed to continue beyond the Rammas."

"Aye, well, then," said Radimir, with a shrug, "we will be up a certain creek that shall not be named due to Lord Boromir's presence, and we will have to start investigating our supply of tents."

Radimir was right, I thought; we would do well. We would have our preparations well in hand, ere ever the long columns of our returning people were sighted from the White City's walls.

The Old Guesthouse itself and a score of other such establishments would do well enough for housing single people whose homes were beyond immediate repair. So also would the many empty barracks quarters of Minas Tirith, built in an Age when the armed forces of the City numbered near as many as its entire population of recent years. For families, our best options were the houses, left empty for generations by that same grim pattern of dwindling population. Armed with lists of the empty buildings, and with skeleton keys and crowbars, our detachments set forth to open all of these houses.

By the end of the day I had nigh on two-thirds of the City Guard and many of the Guild of Carpenters employed in the effort to make the abandoned houses habitable. They were cleaning out long-clogged chimneys of their rodent and feathered tenants, undertaking hasty roof repairs, opening some windows for air and boarding up others from which the glass had long since vanished, collecting and distributing bedding from the storerooms of barracks and the Citadel. As in the work at Osgiliath, I pledged my own money to pay the Carpenters' guildsmen, as surety until the Council of Gondor approved the expense.

I believed – and I sincerely hoped – that the Council would know this was no time to be stingy. Ruefully I told myself I would have to sell off my townhouse to the Guilds, if I funded many more civic improvements out of my pocket.

As the work on the houses began, Pippin thought of another potential workman to join in these efforts.

"If only Svip were here!" the Hobbit exclaimed. "He'd love this, wouldn't he? A chance to see into all sorts of houses of Men! He always used to be curious about everything, didn't he? Maybe if he gets the chance to poke into everywhere, it'll make him curious again."

"It is an excellent plan, Pippin," I said. "It's decidedly worth a try." Privately I feared that nothing in the world of Men could bring back Svip's old joyous curiosity. But he had shown often enough how he disliked being idle, fully as much as did young Bergil Son of Beregond – or as I did myself.

I told myself that I would ask him to join us in this work, when I saw him tonight. I would ask him that, and I would ask him to take part in our father's funeral – a question that, as I thought on it, I feared might bring him yet more pain.

Obeying my promise to Svip that I would not leave the City without him, I had restrained myself from joining any of the detachments scouting the Pelennor. Throughout the afternoon my work was the teeth-gritting business of administration. Thus when the day wore toward its end, I determined to leave the secretaries to their cataloguing, and reward myself with an hour or so of physical action.

Pippin, Bergil and I joined one of the teams at work on the Fourth Level. The Carpenters' Guildsman who was in charge respectfully but firmly forbade me to consider working on the roofs, and I passed on that restriction to Pippin and Bergil. But even with that entertainment denied to us, we were soon happily at work, nailing shutters into place and removing birds' nests from chimneys. Bergil worried over the first of these that he and Pippin dislodged, but it was fortunately too early in the season for the nests to hold any eggs. The boy and the Hobbit took to placing all the evicted nests in nearby trees, and I turned a blind eye to their tree-climbing, as a relatively safe alternative to roof work.

As the afternoon waned, and the Third Company of the Citadel Guard went off-duty, the Guardsman Beregond sought us out to collect his son. At the lad's pleas not to be sent to his daymeal just yet, Beregond instead joined us in the work. He and I wrestled with a particularly large and troublesome window that had come off its hinges. With the hinges finally hammered back into place and blocks of wood wedged into the gaps left by broken panes, I stepped back to admire our handiwork.

Beregond did the same, then he began hesitatingly, "My Lord – we have seen your resignation, posted at the Citadel Gate. I am beyond my place to ask it, but, if you will forgive me – is there no way to dissuade you from this?"

"There is no way," I confirmed quietly, meeting his troubled gaze. "But I thank you for asking it."

The Guardsman swiftly averted his glance. "I know I am not alone in thinking thus, My Lord," he said. "The Valar know that we will gladly follow Lord Faramir. But … they know also that we would gladly follow you."

"We all of us follow Gondor," was my answer. "That is what matters, whosoe'er may bear the White Rod of the Steward."

_Or, _I added silently to myself, _whosoe'er may one day wear the crown._

The dusk drew in and we ended our work for the night. I noted Pippin, Beregond and Bergil in quiet-voiced and earnest-faced conversation. My curiosity as to what their conversation might portend was answered, when Pippin came up to me and said, "Boromir … I will read the part in your father's funeral, if you still want me to."

"Of course we still want you to," I assured him. "I am very glad you've decided thus."

"Beregond and Bergil convinced me to do it," he said. "They say they'll help me practice the readings. I – I thank you and Faramir for trusting me to do this. I just … I just hope I won't do anything to make Lord Denethor ashamed of me."

"You will not. I am certain you will not."

He asked, "Are you asking Svip to read one of the parts?"

"Yes, we had planned to. I mean to ask him tonight."

"Good," the halfling said, with satisfaction. "Maybe it will do him some good. I hope. If he agrees – you can tell him I'm happy to practice with him, too, if he wants. If that'll help."

"I will tell him," I said, "though I fear he may be even harder to convince than you."

I had asked Svip to join me for the daymeal when he returned from Osgiliath. Not once in the weeks since we first reached Minas Tirith had Svip been inside my townhouse, despite repeated invitations. Now, to mark what I rather forlornly wished would be the first of many visits, I had set Dame Weltrude to preparing the most appealing selection of fish and vegetables that she could conjure up.

The fish posed no difficulties, although the Mistress of my Kitchen pursed her lips in fastidious disapproval at my instruction that some of it was to be left raw. The vegetables would be more of a challenge, standing as we did at the close of the winter. I suspected that Svip would have scant regard for dried vegetables, but we had little else to work with. So Dame Weltrude promised me to do the best she could with cooked dishes using the dried vegetables. To give Svip at least an offering of fresh produce, there was lettuce and cabbage from our own kitchen garden. The good woman beamed with triumph as she revealed to me her greatest coup of the day: a small supply of fresh asparagus, bought at no little expense to our household's purse, from one of the Merchant Adventurers' first trips to the south since the black days of the war.

It was sunset and past before Svip appeared. I knew some moments' dread that he would not arrive at all. In one dark corner of my mind I feared that he had not even gone to Osgiliath, but had instead swum farther: that despite my pleas and his agreements, he had set forth on the long journey to his home.

Thus it was with no little relief that I welcomed my small green friend to my house, as the bells rang for the Thirteenth Hour.

The news that Svip brought was good, and I was glad to see that he took pride in reporting it: under his command, the last of the building stones had indeed been recovered from the River. The project could now move forward. Osgiliath's Great Stone Bridge would stride across Anduin once more, for the first time in five hundred and forty years.

I suppose our daymeal on that evening can be counted a success – considering that Svip no longer took the pleasure in anything that he would have taken, in the days before he journeyed into the world of Men.

Before we sat to the table I gave him a tour of my townhouse. He did not race about like a puppy, nor poke his nose into every chest and cupboard as once he would have done. But he seemed relatively interested in all that he saw. He even asked me a few questions, mainly about the family portraits that hang in the Great Hall and my chambers.

As for the meal itself, Weltrude had acquitted herself with honour. Svip was polite about the various cooked vegetables, but he made his way with unfeigned enjoyment through two raw fish, the cabbage, the lettuce, and most of the worth-its-weight-in-_mithril_ asparagus. I had further scandalized Dame Weltrude by ordering that she leave the majority of the asparagus uncooked. It was a deep wound to her sensibilities, but I knew that her sacrifice was worth it, seeing Svip munch on the tender stalks with almost his old enthusiasm.

He agreed willingly enough to my proposal that with the last of the building stones raised, he should join us in the work of the Re-Housing Office. But like Pippin before him, he was a good deal more troubled by my second request.

Svip did not react with horror as Pippin had done. Rather, he peppered me with questions – almost as he might have done a month before. But they were questions with a grimly serious purpose. Frowning intently, perhaps hoping that he could solve once and for all the mysteries that haunted him about the lives and the deaths of Men, he asked me every conceivable question on the subject of funerals.

He asked me how many funerals I had attended, whose they were, what had been said and done at them. He asked me why we had funerals, what happened if one didn't have one, whether people felt any better after them. To the best of my ability I answered him, although I fear that few of my answers held the certainty that Svip was seeking.

At length I said, "Perhaps you would like to read through the draft of the funeral that Húrin's put together. It may answer more of your questions. That is – do you read Westron? We can get someone to translate it for you, or read it out for you, if you don't – "

"Of course I read Westron," he said, looking offended. "I learned it when I was travelling before, in the Old Wars."

"Right, then," I said, telling myself that someday I really should get him to tell me the story of those travels. "Then you should read that, and perhaps you'll want to read the records of the Stewards' funerals that Húrin has in his office, as well. I don't know if the records will answer your questions any better than I can. But they will give you more background, at the least. And they should tell you more of the lives of the Stewards, and what we chose to remember of each of them, at their funerals. It is often in remembering the lives of those who have gone, that we find the strength to go on past their deaths."

Svip's look of frowning puzzlement did not change, nor did he give me yet an answer on whether he would take part in the funeral or no. But he said, "All right. I'll read the funeral and the records. Can I do that here?" he added. "I guess Húrin doesn't want me reading the records in the Fountain."

I readily agreed, picturing the Lord of the Keys' face if that concept were proposed to him.

Thus I sent to Lord Húrin, asking that the records of the funerals be brought to my townhouse at once. I left Svip curled up in an armchair by the fire, already deep in studying the draft of our father's funeral. For my part, I found, my duties for the day were not yet done.

My Seneschal Gavrilo apologetically informed me that I'd had several callers while I was still at table with Svip. He had sent them away until I should emerge to decree whether or not I was receiving visitors.

On viewing the list of the callers' names, I decided with a sigh that I was, indeed, receiving. "Several" had been an understatement, for listed were the names of no fewer than twelve of the City's guildleaders.

I repaired to my study whilst Gavrilo sent word to the guildleaders that I would now accept their calls. I did not even need to wait for word to reach those Men and for them to return, for in the meantime three more of the guildleaders and Councillors of Gondor arrived at our door.

Fortunately there was no need to meet with my visitors individually, for all had come upon the same errand. Beregond of the Citadel Guard was not alone in harbouring questions, when he read my posted resignation.

So now, as I met with several gaggles of guildleaders in turn, I yet again explained and defended my reasoning, thanked them for their expressions of regret and concern, and declared my immovability on this decision.

Grateful though I was for their stated regret, I was more grateful to see the backs of them.

Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers, knowing that every Councillor in Minas Tirith was like to have the same questions, sent a letter instead of waiting upon me himself. In his typically elaborate terms, he wrote of the pleasure he had taken in working with me as Steward's Heir, and his hope that I would continue my active involvement in the government of our country, even though I were not to hold the White Rod of the Steward.

The other Councillor who followed a different tack from that of his brethren was the Innkeepers' Guildleader Ivarr Son of Yngvar. He arrived at my townhouse that night after the rest had gone, and he came not to question or express regret. He brought with him rather a cask of Port Linhir wine, of the first shipment he'd received from the south since our Enemy marched on Minas Tirith. I broached the cask with him, and we drank to the health and long reign of the Steward Faramir.

When Ivarr had gone, I sat up with Svip late into the night. The water creature read the records of the Stewards' funerals, and I committed to memory my readings for my father.

* * *

The next day's Council took place in one of the conference chambers above the Tower Hall. No meeting could be held in the Hall itself until our late Steward's funeral.

We were a sombre-faced bunch as we met around the long table. But the meeting brought no fireworks such as those I had often witnessed – and in which I had often taken part – in Council sessions presided over by our father.

My conferences of the night before, wearisome though they were, had apparently paid off. There was little of question or debate. The Councillors merely repeated formally their regret at my decision, and this time followed those statements with pledges of their loyalty and confidence in the coming reign of Faramir.

After Faramir and I both had thanked them, the rest of the meeting was also mercifully brief. The Council voted unanimously to approve the plans for Lord Denethor's funeral, and they accepted without many troublesome questions my report on the progress of the Office of Re-Housing.

As we all well knew, of course, the Council was not fully in session. We were bound to see all of the usual wrangling – such as, no doubt, debate upon the expenditures of the Re-Housing Office – when our father's funeral was behind us and Faramir was invested with the White Rod of Office.

"That went better than I thought it would," Faramir murmured to me, when all of the Council save we had departed. "Did you bribe them all not to make any trouble?"

I snorted. "Just wait. I'm sure all new governments start out with a touching show of unanimity. Give them a few days, 'till they've got it on record what good, loyal fellows they are. Then these hallowed halls will ring with rancour once more."

Faramir shook his head, with a sigh and a smile. "No one ever accused you of being an optimist, did they?"

Yet my grumbling had little behind it save habit, for I saw scant cause for pessimism on that day.

Our work was progressing, and progressing well. And on our ride to the Anduin that morning, Svip told me that he would take part in our father's funeral.

After the Council session, I rejoined Pippin, Svip and Bergil, now at work with one of the teams on the Third Level. The work on the houses was as satisfying as the day before, but I could give to it only a few hours. In the afternoon Pippin and I parted from the others. With a detachment of secretaries we set about inspecting the stores in the City's warehouses, and deciding the procedure for issuing rations to any of our returning citizens who found themselves bereft both of provisions and of funds.

I met, further, with Rađobard and his fellow leading members of the Merchant Adventurers' Guild, and with the Representative Council of the Vendors of the Market. Neither of those meetings was entirely satisfactory. All gave me solemn assurances that they would not think of harming our people with any such shameful tactics as price-gouging, in the lean days to come. But yet they reminded me also that they had their own folk to think of, and their own expenses. Did suppliers in the southlands take advantage of our late crisis by raising prices, they might be forced to raise their own prices, in turn.

"It's a strange thing," mused Pippin, as we made our way up the Hill of Guard from my meeting with the Council of Vendors. "I would have thought you'd just be able to tell them not to do it, and they wouldn't. _Would_ you have been able to just tell them, if you'd stayed Steward? Will they have to obey if Faramir tells them?"

"That's a tricky question," I admitted. "Some Stewards are able to rule more-or-less by command. My father was able to, at times, for many Men feared him. Yet even he could not force into action all the policies he wished. It is different in the army; there, the Steward is the highest captain, and his word, indeed, is law. But in civilian matters, the Steward's will is but one part of the story. He must have the backing of the Council, if his wishes are to hold any force."

Pippin nodded thoughtfully. In sudden curiosity, I asked him, "How is it with the people of the Shire? Have you leaders who can command the actions of their people?"

"Well … no," said Pippin. "We have Mayors and Shirrifs and such, and every family's got its own head, like my dad the Thain, and Merry's dad the Master of Buckland. But – well, fathers can usually make themselves obeyed, at least till their kids get too big for them to wollop. But for the rest of it, I don't think anyone ever did what a Mayor or a Shirrif told them to, unless they wanted to do it themselves. All a Thain or a Mayor or any of 'em can do is try and talk folk into doing things."

"Will that be your charge someday?" I asked. "Will you be the Thain after your father?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so," he said, rather uncomfortably, "always assuming I go back home, that is. And assuming my dad doesn't live forever, which I reckon he will, since he's the toughest old geezer as ever grew hair on his feet. Ugh," he went on, with an exaggerated shudder, "it's nothing I'm looking forward to, I can tell you that much sure as mustard. Sooner go to work as a muleteer, than try to talk a bunch of Hobbits into anything!"

Young Took ruminated on that a moment longer, then made haste to change the subject. "What will happen, do you think?" said he. "_Are _prices going to go up, like those Men say they're bound to? _Will_ the Men of the South drive their prices through the roof, because you've got no choice but to buy from them? Isn't there – isn't there a chance they'll hold off, since they ought to know they owe you one? Since Minas Tirith had the Dark Lord at its gate, and they didn't?"

"We can hope," I said, smiling. "It's certainly a point of which our diplomats will remind them. But our best course is to free ourselves from the need of them, as swiftly as possible. It is something I'll have to speak with Faramir about," I continued, more or less thinking aloud. "As soon as the farmers of Anórien can return to their land, we must launch a campaign to aid them. Much time is already lost, but if we act fast, we can still salvage much of this growing season. We will have to send troops to aid in readying the fields, and planting."

A memory came to me of Faramir's words from the morning before: of his longing hope that the lands blighted by Sauron's darkness might now bloom with life again.

"Aye," I said, my enthusiasm growing as I spoke, "much of the army may have to be farmers all this year, through to the harvest. If we can indeed spare them from frontier service; if the enemy is truly on the run, as we hope … the farmers alone could scarce hope to salvage half a crop this year from land where Orcs and Haradrim have been running roughshod. But with the army to labour beside them … I think then we have a chance."

Pippin had been gnawing his lip as he frowned and listened to me, but now he broke into a sunny smile.

"It would be a wonderful project for Sam to work on!" he exclaimed. "Don't you think? Maybe he'll want to. Maybe he'll want to stay here for a while and work on it; maybe he and Frodo won't go back home right away. And – and then Merry and I won't have to decide whether to go with them or stay with you and Éomer and Éowyn. Not yet."

I started to tell him that it sounded like a good idea. But my expression gave me away.

"Oh," Pippin said, looking up at me in remorse. "I'm sorry, I didn't think. You're scared of what will happen when you see Frodo and Sam again. I mean – I don't mean you're scared, of course, I just mean – "

I laughed a little at that and ruffled my young friend's hair. "It's perfectly all right, Pippin," I said. "You don't need to be worried about it. I _am _scared of what will happen."

I sighed and shook my head. "But I should not be, for there is no point in it. I will give them my apology. After that it is up to them. It is for them to choose whether they can endure my company or no." That last statement sounded entirely too self-pitying, and I mentally cursed it and wished I could call the words back.

Pippin, meanwhile, leapt into trying to encourage me.

"It won't be like that," he said. "I'm _sure _Frodo will understand. He'll know it was the Ring that made you do those things, the Ring and your love for your people. He'll understand. And if Frodo forgives you, then Sam will. Well – he will if Frodo tells him to."

"I wish I had your confidence in that," I said. "I hope that Frodo will understand. But if he does not … Whatever happens, I will respect his wishes and his choice. As I did not respect them before," I added, once more unable to hold back a trace of bitterness.

"Of course he'll understand!" insisted Pippin. "And – well, gods know what he and Sam have been through since they left us. But you remember what Frodo was starting to look like; how bad it was getting. How pale and thin his face was. How he'd seem sort of faint and see-through, like the Ring was eating at him, or that Morgul-wound, or both. How sometimes, something seemed to burn in his eyes, that wasn't him at all. I'm sure he knows what the Ring could do, Boromir. He knows what it could do, and he knows what it did to you."

Fullness in my heart held me back from being able to answer. I was spared the need to do so.

We had paused near the Fourth Level tunnel. Now a glad cry went up from many voices, a cry that drew our gaze to the guardsmen upon the wall.

"My Lord!" called one of the guards, seeing me. "My Lord, come look at this!"

I hastened to obey, racing up the stairs to the wall with Pippin close at my heels. I boosted him up to stand in one of the crenellations.

"There!" Pippin exclaimed. "There, Boromir, look!"

The sight was one to drive aside doubt, shadows and fear.

Scarcely more than insect-specks in the distance, winding their way along the Great South Road, we saw them: first one small cart, then a larger wain, then another, and another still.

Logically I knew they were too far away for us to truly hear them. Yet I imagined I heard their cheers rise to join those of the Men along the City's walls. I saw some of the tiny figures in the carts rise to their feet. Through the haze of distance I felt certain I could see them wave.

"Are they the first you have seen?" I asked the guardsman at my side.

"Aye, My Lord," he enthused, with a grin that seemed wider than his face. "They'll be some who took refuge in the Vale of Tumladen, will they not? Or in Lossarnach? It's too soon yet since the order went out for any to be back from the mountains …"

"Aye," I agreed, calculating the distances in my mind. "It will be this time tomorrow, at the earliest, ere any can reach us from the nearest mountain garrisons. Is that where your people have gone?" I asked him.

"Yes, sir. My wife and girls went to her mother's, in Minrimmon. So they'll be here day after tomorrow, then, or the next day. Valar's blood, sir, it'll seem like an age!" Of a sudden abashed at speaking quite so freely to one of the Lords of Gondor, the Man added respectfully, "They'll be sorry to miss your Lord father's funeral, sir. I know they grieve for him, and pray for him. As do I."

I clasped the guardsman's shoulder. "Thank you," I told him. "But do not grieve today. When our people are returning home, this is a day when none in Minas Tirith should grieve."

* * *

On the evening of that day, Faramir and I climbed to the roof of the White Tower, to watch the setting of the sun.

When we gained the roof, both of us gazed at the door to the tower room, the room which had been our father's. Then resolutely we turned our backs upon it.

"Do you know," Faramir said softly, "I think I never truly believed that tomorrow would come. I suppose somehow I believed he would live forever."

"I know," I said. "I was thinking the same thing. I suppose all sons believe that. He probably believed it too, about our grandfather."

Faramir nodded. He asked me then, "What do you remember about him at the time when Grandfather died?"

I told Faramir what I recalled: the grief in Father's voice as he tried to explain to me our grandfather's death, and the uncertainty that seemed so strange to hear from him, when he admitted that he did not know what faced each Man when he stepped beyond the Spheres of this world.

I went on, "I don't know anything of what it was like for him, when he first became Steward. I never asked him about it. I wish I had."

We were silent for a time. We gazed at the Fields of the Pelennor, at the silver River, and at the long, slow line of carts and wains that yet made its way through the evening toward us.

Faramir sighed and said in a rueful tone, "I keep thinking that now would be a very useful time for a vision. If one is going to _have _visions, then just before becoming Steward would be an appropriate time for one! But perhaps I should be thankful that I haven't seen anything. If it were a vision of Father, anyway, then the Valar know he'd not be likely to tell me anything encouraging."

"You never know," I protested automatically.

He gave me a melancholy smile and said, "As I have always known, Brother: you and I did not know the same father."

I argued, "For the sake of our sanity, don't we mortals have to believe it's possible for one's death to bring new clarity of sight? Perhaps by dying, Father has finally figured out what a bloody fool he was in all his dealings with you."

His smile seemed to become a shade less melancholy. "My dear, dear Boromir," he mused, in tones of quiet wonderment. "I was wrong about you this morning, when I said you were not an optimist."

Again for a while we fell silent, until I essayed my next hopefully cheering comment. "So maybe you won't have a vision of Father. Maybe it'll be of someone else, with a longer perspective on things. Pelendur, maybe, or Vorondil, or Húrin of Emyn Arnen. And whoever it is, he'll tell you you're going to be one of the greatest of all the Stewards of our line. And you'll believe it when _he_ tells you – as you refuse to do when I tell you the same thing."

I was very glad to see amusement sparkle in my brother's eyes as he looked at me. "You have to admit," he pointed out, "you do have a doting big brother's bias on the question."

He turned again to gaze beyond the Great River, to the land no longer shrouded by fire and shadow and despair.

"I still cannot get used to it," he breathed, "to seeing Mordor without the shadow. I think I will never get used to it." He added, so quietly I could scarcely hear him, "Perhaps that is the only vision I should need to see."

We descended once more to the Place of the Fountain, and found an unusual little group seated about the Fountain of the White Tree. Or rather, one of them was seated _in _the Fountain, while the others sat near to him on the Fountain's low wall.

All four of them were too intent on the documents before them to notice our arrival. Svip and Pippin were huddled over one copy spread out upon the Fountain wall, while Beregond and his son sat close together with a copy that Beregond held.

Pippin was nearing the end of one of his funeral readings. Faramir and I both paused to listen. I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking of how those same words would sound when spoken again before a crowd of thousands, in this very place, a day from now.

Pippin broke off suddenly. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "I didn't see you. Hullo, Boromir, Faramir – I mean, My Lord."

Beregond and Bergil, followed soon after by Pippin, all jumped to their feet.

"Sit back down," Faramir urged, as we walked up to them. "We didn't want to interrupt."

Pippin readily, and Beregond and Bergil with more reluctance, sat down.

"Do you two want to practice with us?" asked Svip.

Faramir and I looked to each other.

"I could use the practice," I said.

"Yes. All right," Faramir said, smiling at the four of them. "Thank you. I'll just go get another copy from the office – "

"No," said Pippin, jumping up again. "I should do that. You have to remember: I'm the one who's supposed to be running errands, not you."

As Pippin sped away, Faramir and I sat down by the others. A potentially awkward silence was broken when Faramir asked Bergil of the progress of the day's work in the abandoned houses.

The Hobbit swiftly returned with two more copies of the readings, as Bergil was telling Faramir of the family of raccoons he and Pippin had relocated to the gardens of the Houses of Healing.

In the torchlit courtyard, beneath the White Tree, the six of us read aloud the funeral service for the Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor. Beregond and Bergil took turns reading the parts that others would speak, in between those of Svip, Pippin, Faramir and myself. The voice of young Bergil sounded clearly through the Place of the Fountain, while that of his father roughened and broke a time or two, on the edge of tears. Pippin stumbled a bit now and again on unfamiliar words, and was gently corrected by Beregond or by Faramir. There seemed to be no unfamiliar words to Svip, and he spoke strongly, as though he had the words near committed to memory. Faramir spoke very quietly, his words sounding like a prayer.

For my part, it was good that I alreadyhad my readings memorised. For as I put one hand on Svip's shoulder and the other on Pippin's, and spoke the words that I would speak again the next day when the sun sank into Mindolluin's arms, my sight blurred too much for me to read the words before me.


	25. Chapter 25: The Funeral of Denethor

Greetings to all! Miraculously, I am managing to post this less than two years after the previous chapter. Our twins are now two-and-a-half, and life is getting onto something more like an even keel. With that has come a sudden and unexpected upsurge in creativity.

The revised estimate for the tale is that it will be twenty-nine chapters long. The next chapter is the third portion of what was originally intended as one chapter, and I already have a large portion of it written. So, fingers and all other digits crossed, there's a chance that it might be posted before too hideously long.

My new goal is to get this tale finished before its ten-year anniversary, which would be in February 2012 ...

I hope someone is still interested in reading this! To that someone or someones, enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Five

Departures and Returns, Part Two: The Funeral of Denethor

In the morning, heavy clouds wreathed the sky. I had a grim suspicion that the weather would follow its pattern of the day of Théodhild, Éoflæd and Findemir's funeral, once again drenching us in the rain that matched the despair I had felt on that day.

But my fears did not come to pass. The clouds shredded as the sunset and the hour of the ceremony approached. In the sky over Mindolluin, those clouds took on a thousand jewelled hues.

It was no easy day, I fear, for Peregrin Took. He had a frantic energy about him, as though he longed to leap either to combat or to flight. At one point I offered that he might go and practice his readings more, if that would make him feel better. But he shook his head vigorously and said, "No, that'd just make it worse. I just need to keep working, to take my mind off it."

"You will be fine, Pippin," I said to him, kneeling and gripping his shoulders in my hands. "You will be fine, I swear it to you. You did the readings excellently last night. You will do so again today."

"I just … I feel sick," Pippin admitted. He smiled, indeed, a very queasy smile. "It's as bad as when your father asked me to teach him songs of the Shire. I thought I was going to die of shame. To think of singing tavern songs for the Steward of Gondor!"

Bleakly, the Hobbit shook his head. "I wish I had sung them for him, now. I'd go back and sing them for him now, if I could."

Svip did not seem to catch our young friend's nervousness. Through the day he held fast to the grim determination with which he'd thrown himself into studying past Stewards' funerals.

In grimness of my own I contemplated my two comrades. Pippin, I thought, had a much better chance of a happy outcome than did Svip. I believed that Pippin would play his part well, and was like to emerge from the experience with renewed and strengthened confidence in himself. But I feared for Svip's chances of gaining the goal that he sought.

If he went through our rituals and did not find his grieving cured by them, what then?

What answers would he find for himself, if all the answers we had tried to give him seemed to come to nothing?

It was all very well to tell him to be patient, to tell him that his sorrow would ease in time. However long-lived Svip's people might be, it seemed their great life spans gave no help to them in enduring the pain of the present.

Perhaps, I thought gloomily, their long lives even made this grief worse. We Men, at least, knew we had only two hundred years of life at the most to get through. And we could hope for some kind of change in perspective and understanding at the end of it. But to know that perhaps millennia stretched out before you … to fear that for all that time you would feel every bit as miserable as you did now …

I told myself I should seek the advice of Legolas on this problem, when he returned with the army to Minas Tirith. But I suspected that the Elves themselves had discovered no real answer to the dilemma.

Perhaps it was this that sent them journeying across the sea: that they might escape to a land where death and loss were troublous memories they no longer had to face. And, I thought, if that were so, then I could hardly blame them.

At least, I kept reminding myself in the attempt to add some levity to my thoughts, we could all be very grateful on this day that we were not Lord Húrin Keeper of the Keys. That unfortunate nobleman was in a state worse by far than was Pippin. I feared the strain of managing a Steward's funeral would age him several decades before the ceremony drew to its end.

Through all that day, our people in their hundreds streamed back into the City, from Lossarnach and the White Mountains' garrisons. The streets, courtyards and houses of Minas Tirith seemed bursting again into life, like a flower opening suddenly to the sun. And when the sun began to dip toward Mindolluin's shadows, it seemed that every soul within the City's walls made their way to the Courtyard of the White Tree.

As the bells of the Citadel pealed the hour, sweet and clear, the funeral party set forth from the Council chamber where we had assembled.

Faramir led our procession. I followed after him, with Svip behind me. Next behind Svip, Pippin walked alongside Cosimo the Steward's Seneschal, to aid the stalwart old Man should his footing falter. Master Pelendur Physician to the Steward followed next, the last of we who would speak in the ceremony.

After him walked our royal allies of Rohan: Éomer King, the Lady Éowyn with Merry in attendance, and Elfhelm the Marshal. A few paces behind them followed the grim-faced Keeper of the Keys.

Of that procession, all were clad in the black and silver of the House of the Stewards, save for the Rohirrim. They wore the vivid green that seemed as ever to evoke the great, open grasslands of their home.

Near as familiar to me as the livery of our own House were those green surcoats with the white horse blazoned on the bosom of each. Yet I will admit that my thoughts wandered with unseemly frequency to how the livery had been altered for one of their number, in the form of the green gown worn by the White Lady of Rohan.

That dress had assuredly been made for her by seamstresses here in the City. It fit her entirely too well for it not to have been cut to her measure.

Sternly I had to remind myself – more than once – that it would not do at all for me to be caught staring at how Rohan's rampant white horse appeared on _that _particular garment.

When the Rohirrim had arrived in the Council chamber, the lady smiled faintly at me, and at Faramir. That was all, yet it set my blood to racing.

With some effort I forced my thoughts to the Lord Steward Denethor. Yet even that did not bring the solemnity that was appropriate.

Instead I imagined that I heard my Lord father chuckling at my discomfiture.

_It is about time, son, _I imagined I heard his sharp voice rally me. _Couldn't you have got around to daydreaming on ladies' bosoms a bit sooner?_

_This is splendid, Boromir,_ thought I. _Here you have Peregrin Took and Lord Húrin of the Keys each about to drop dead of nerves as they walk, Svip with his life irrevocably altered by grief to which _you _introduced him, and an entire kingdom in mourning. And _you_ are thinking thoughts appropriate to a fourteen-year-old!_

My father's imagined voice riposted, _Better late than never._

We passed into the vastness of the Tower Hall. The majesty of that hallowed room pulled my mind away from such inappropriate wanderings.

The echoing of our footsteps conjured for me the tread of all who had walked this path before us. In my mind our steps became those of each new Steward who had walked from this Hall, to the long passage beyond, and from thence to the Court of the Fountain, to honour the memory of his fallen father. And farther back still, our steps became the tread of the kings.

We strode at last from the Tower into the evening light of the Court of the White Tree. One by one we climbed to the stage that Lord Húrin's Men had constructed before the Tower door, and we filed to stand before the seats at the back of the dais. To the platform's either side, two detachments stood at attention: at our right, Men of the Citadel Guard; to the left, the Riders of Rohan.

When we stepped through the Tower door, an oddly muted rush of sound rose to meet us. It was the sound of thousands of whispers, rising and hastily stilled, and an intake of breath that seemed to come from all of the White City.

I do not recall enough of our grandfather's funeral to know if the Courtyard was as crowded then as it was for our father's. Most like it was. But it seemed to me that I had never before seen the Court of the Fountain so filled with our people as I saw it now on this day.

The Courtyard had vanished in a sea of faces and flowers. Our people seemingly had stripped their gardens of every flower already in bloom, and I reckoned that the flower-sellers in the market must have seen brisk trade. Impatiently I told myself there was no point in worrying now over how much the vendors of the City might have seen fit to raise the price of flowers.

People had been gathering for hours, and a few were arriving still. As each Man, woman or child reached the Court of the Fountain, they made their way along the corridor kept open through the centre of the courtyard, to the Fountain of the White Tree. There they left their offerings of flowers around the Fountain's base. The walls of the Fountain were buried in a towering mountain of blossoms.

From the sides of that mountain, flowers slid downward, into the water of the Fountain itself. I watched white flowers drift in the glimmering water. I thought this must be almost how it had looked when the White Tree still bloomed.

In the first glimpse I would have said that every person in the City stood now in the Courtyard of the Tree. But that of course was not so. The guards at the Great Gate and on the walls, and some of the staff of the Houses of Healing, were still at their posts. So also were the trumpeters of Minas Tirith.

From the Great Gate, from each of the seven walls, and from atop the White Tower, the trumpets called in unison. For one final time they sounded the Fanfare for the Steward in honour of Denethor Son of Ecthelion.

The final ringing tone of the trumpets vanished into silence. As one, all of the funeral party save for Faramir took our seats. Faramir stepped forward to the podium that stood draped in the white and silver banner of the Stewards.

Attendants had arrayed all the readings on the podium in the proper order. But I knew that Faramir would not need to read his first text, no more than I needed mine.

His voice rang out as clearly as had the silver trumpets of our City.

"Hear now the lineage of Denethor Son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, of the House of Húrin."

Before that hushed assembly, Faramir spoke the names of our longfathers, each Man in his turn. From Húrin of Emyn Arnen, Steward to the Kings Minardil, Telemnar and Tarandor, each son followed after his father, through the centuries, until at last Faramir spoke the name of Steward Túrin I.

He returned then to his place amongst us. I stepped forward to the podium, my voice succeeding his as we summoned each Man of our line.

Many of the Men whose names Faramir spoke will be nothing more than names and distant stories to us, until perhaps the day when we shall pass beyond the spheres of this world and meet each of them face to face. But our ancestors whose names I spoke had each of them a face that we knew.

I saw, as I spoke, the cold and pallid faces of the Men who lay in their motionless ranks in the House of the Stewards. As I spoke, I saw each face come to life, and I heard each one speaking with me: each Man of them speaking in awe and love and grief the names of his longfathers.

At last, after all that mighty host, came the two whom in truth I knew.

"Ecthelion, Son of Turgon. Denethor, Son of Ecthelion."

I stepped aside then from the podium, but did not yet return to my seat. Instead I stood by to give any help that might be needed, as Cosimo the Seneschal walked to the podium in his turn.

The old gentleman's step was necessarily slow, and he kept a steadying grip upon Pippin's shoulder as he walked. But he did not falter. Nor did his voice falter, when he began the readings from the _Great Chronicle of Gondor_.

Dry and with little emotion in them are the words of the _Great Chronicle_, as they recount each Steward's accession, the Council sessions of his reign, the military campaigns, and any remarkable portents of the weather. Yet as Cosimo Son of Gardar began to read the chronicle entries of my father's reign, I heard a fierce pride in the old Man's voice. Answering pride rose in my own heart.

By the gods, it was good to hear those readings proclaimed before the people of our City, to hear the words of the chronicle reaffirm for all of us the image of Lord Denethor as I wished him to be remembered. The Steward who rose out of Cosimo's words was not the old Man warring against his own grief and despair. He was the Denethor who had led our forces into battle, who with his deeds and his words kept hope alive in the hearts of our people.

His reading complete, Cosimo made his way back to the line of chairs, with Pippin and me at his either side. Master Pelendur the Physician stood and clasped his old friend's hand for a moment before the Seneschal took his seat. Then Pelendur strode to the podium, and took up the account of those early years of my father's reign.

Pride sounded in Pelendur's voice as it had in Cosimo's, but also a hint of the dark memories held for him in every battle's name that he read forth. This was no simple history for him, but the tale of his own life. Each time the Lord Denethor rode into battle, Pelendur the Healer had been by his side.

For many of our people in the Courtyard, Pelendur's words brought memories as well – of their own experiences in those battles, or of loved ones lost. As I glanced over the crowd I saw some of them nod as though in remembrance. Others bowed their heads or reached to brush away tears.

A gusty exhalation of breath drew my attention back to the funeral party. The sigh came from Pippin, who was rubbing his palms on his breeches. I caught his eye, smiled and nodded. The Hobbit managed the palest of smiles in reply.

Then Master Pelendur was returning to his seat. Pippin jumped down from his chair and strode forward in his turn.

This Steward's funeral had its own unique feature. A second, shorter podium stood next to the first, draped like the first by the Stewards' white and silver banner. As Pippin stepped to his place at this podium, a low tide of whispers rose up from the crowd: those who had been in Minas Tirith through the siege, attempting to explain the Prince of the Halflings to their neighbours and kinfolk who had only just returned.

The whispers quickly stilled. Peregrin Son of Paladin began his reading, in a strong, clear voice that only occasionally shook.

I had told Pippin that he would make my father proud of him. In that, I was certain I was right. And by all the gods, I was proud of him as well.

I could not help but think of the first time I had seen him, in Rivendell, and recall the doubt I had felt when first I learned that he and Merry were to make two of the Fellowship. In mighty contrast were those two Peregrin Tooks: the irresponsible child I had thought him then, and the young warrior who stood bravely before us now, proclaiming the words of the _Chronicle of Gondor _in the accents of his distant Shire.

Then Pippin's reading also was completed. Svip sprang down from his chair and brushed past Pippin as the Hobbit returned. Pippin tried to reach out to him and clasp his shoulder as they passed each other, but the water creature strode by without meeting his eyes. For a moment Pippin stood watching Svip with a concerned and disappointed look.

Again the whispers arose as Svip stepped to the smaller podium. Again they were rapidly silenced. Though I could not see Svip's face, I imagined the challenging stare which with I thought he must now be answering the people of Minas Tirith.

I had grown so used to Svip that it took me a moment to recollect how strange he had seemed to me when first I awoke and saw him, and to imagine how odd he must appear to our people who had just returned to the White City.

Svip's reading was flawless, his voice as strong as that of any who had spoken this day. I thought that few in the Courtyard of the Tree would catch the fierce grimness of his tones; most would take it only for the natural accents of his people. I could not help hearing in my mind the irrepressible chatter with which he had greeted me on my return from the dead. I could not help hearing it, and wondering if in truth I would ever hear it again.

But there was no time for me to let such doubts hold sway over me. Already Svip's reading was nearing its end.

In the silence that followed the last of his words, I stood. Svip stalked back to us, as grimly glowering as ever.

I stepped forward once more, pushing my concern for my friend to the back of my thoughts.

Dark were the days of which I now spoke. We had reached now the closing years of Lord Denethor's reign, years when in truth it was easy to believe that all hope was lost. I spoke of battles and losses that I remembered too well. Regret clutched again at my heart, that my father had died in that dark time, believing that all he had fought for was gone.

I spoke the last of my reading, and I felt the pitiless bite of unshed tears. Through their haze I turned and stepped aside for Faramir to speak the last of the ceremony's readings.

As I once more took my seat beside Peregrin Took, I heard my own sorrow in my brother's voice.

Strange indeed it was to think of the times in which we now dwelt, and to hear Faramir recite the chronicle's entries on the year past.

Last summer's battle for Osgiliath, with the dread appearance of the Black Captain.

The dream of omen that had sent me questing for Imladris.

The massing of our Enemy's forces, and the days through which we had just passed: evacuation of the Sun Land and the White City, the day when the sun rose no more, battle at Cair Andros and Osgiliath, finally the Siege of Minas Tirith.

All of us lived again those black times as he spoke them. And we lived, as well, that which followed.

The return of the daylight. Lord Denethor leading the troops of the City into battle. The deeds of the Rohirrim, the death of Théoden King, Lady Éowyn's slaying of the King of the Nazgûl. The arrival of the pirate fleet bearing our allies of the southlands – and led by Lord Aragorn of the Dúnadain.

As my brother spoke the words of the _Great Chronicle_, I felt a sudden strange surge of wonder and regret.

When dawn next rose over the White City, our time of mourning would officially be at its end. We would have said our farewells, and we would live no more in the reign of the Steward Denethor.

I did not want our mourning to end. Yet at the same time, the thought of that dawn brought with it whispers of anticipation and hope.

There came at last the chronicle's final entry.

The Keeper of the Chronicle had come to me some days after my father's death, and asked me how the final entry should read. The chronicle entries are dry affairs as a rule, with little in them of what motivated their subject's acts. But when I thought of how it would read to Men of future Ages, I could not let it rest as a bald recounting of actions. There must be at least some explanation, that Men in days to come might not think the Lord Steward had ventured to the far shore of Anduin in time of war, with no other escort than his esquire, from simple foolishness.

Faramir spoke now the words upon which the chronicle's Keeper and I had agreed.

"The Lord Denethor, ill and troubled in mind, crossed the Great River to join the fight against the Enemy, accompanied only by his esquire Peregrin Son of Paladin, the halfling. Captain-General Boromir and his comrade Svip of the Duinhirrim followed, seeking to convince the Steward to return.

"At Ostoher's Hill, these four gave battle to an Orc War Party. Two score Orcs they slew. In combat, fighting for his comrades and his City, the Lord Steward was slain. Thus ended the days of Denethor Son of Ecthelion, twenty-sixth Reigning Steward of the House of Húrin."

Faramir's words were succeeded by one moment of quiet, broken only by muffled sobbing here and there throughout the crowd. Then once more the trumpets of the City rang out the Fanfare for the Steward. But this time they honoured not our fallen lord, but the Man who stood before us: the Lord Steward Faramir Son of Denethor.

Silently we waited until the trumpets' call had faded. Then, in ranks two abreast, the Guards of the Citadel led our procession forth, across the courtyard down the pathway left open for us by the throngs of our people. In the same order as before, we followed, led by the Steward Faramir. Behind us, their spears turned downward in mourning, marched the Riders of Rohan.

Through the Citadel gate the procession slowly passed. Through the torchlit shadows of the tunnel we paced, hollow echoes of our footsteps sounding from the tunnel's walls. Passing again into the evening's light, we followed the road of the Sixth Level, westward past the Citadel stables and the Houses of Healing, to Fen Hollen, the Closed Door.

The Citadel Guard filed into place, taking up their posts to either side of the road. Between their silent ranks walked Faramir, until he faced the aged Porter, standing before the Closed Door.

As he and his longfathers had spoken before, times without number, the old Man gave the ritual challenge: "Who seeks admission unto the Silent Street?"

And Faramir answered him, "Those who weep for Denethor Son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor."

Then the Porter bowed to him and unlocked the door. Silently it swung back, and Faramir now led us down the steps of the curving road to Rath Dínen and the Mansions of the Dead.

For our people who had gathered in the Court of the Fountain, their duty to the Lord Denethor was ended. It was with a twinge of wistfulness that I imagined them filing from the Citadel and wending their way through Minas Tirith's streets. Homeward their paths led them now, to their daymeals, and, for many, to the tears and laughter of reunion with kin only this day returned to the White City.

For us, a night of duty remained. Our path led along the cobbles of Rath Dínen, between the pallid domes that guard the sleep of Gondor's fallen nobles and captains, and at last to the broad staircase before the House of the Stewards. Up those stairs and out of the evening's last sunlight we walked, into the dust and shadows of that ancient hall.

On the marble table where my father lay, the candles at each corner already were lit. They would burn through all the long night ahead, until they guttered out in the coming of the dawn.

As we passed, each of us paused to bow before the body of Théoden King. Then slowly we of the funeral party took our places around the bier of the Lord Steward Denethor. The Citadel Guardsmen and the Riders of Rohan took up their posts on guard, along the great chamber's walls.

Side by side at the table's head stood Faramir and I. At its foot stood our royal allies, Éomer King and the Lady Éowyn. To the right of the table a chair had been placed for Cosimo the Steward's Seneschal, and opposite it, another for Pelendur the Physician. Little need, I suspected, had Pelendur for that chair. I was certain that he had requested it to save Cosimo the shame of being the only one of us to sit throughout this night. At the side of Cosimo's chair stood Peregrin Took, with Elfhelm the Marshal of Rohan next to him. Across from them stood Svip and Meriadoc Brandybuck.

When each of us had reached his place, Húrin Keeper of the Keys took his own, standing guard just within the open door of the House of the Stewards.

Faramir stepped closer to our father, leaned down and placed a kiss upon his brow. My brother returned to his place, and I stepped closer in my turn.

From across my shoulder I lifted the baldric that bore the Horn of Gondor. The broken Horn was bound together still with the bands of silver that my father had ordered placed upon it, when it returned to him from the Great River as a token of his lost son.

All this day, for one final time, I had worn the Horn of Gondor. Now I would wear it no more.

Faramir and I had spoken of this, and agreed that here with our longfathers was where the Horn belonged.

Heirloom of our house though it was, it had always been an heirloom with practical purpose. Now that Horn of Gondor could sound no more, little point was there in passing it down to future Steward's Heirs. Let it lie here with the Men who had borne it, by the side of the Lord Denethor, that he might guard it in death as he had carried it with honour in life. Here it would lie even as Gondor's crown lay in the House of the Kings, upon the bosom of Eärnur who had worn it at the last – save only that the crown might one day soon be carried forth to grace the brow of another king, while the Horn of Gondor would rest here until the end of all days.

As I placed the Horn by my father's side, I could not help but smile at a memory that had come to me.

I saw myself again a callow youth, all gangly limbs and glorious dreams, and I remembered the dread with which I had faced the first moment when I must sound the Horn. Well I recalled my horror at the thought that I might fail to call forth any proper sound, and would summon instead some desperate croak that should brand me an unworthy successor to all past Steward's Heirs. Well also I remembered my wondering pride when its call sounded pure and true, as though the Horn recognised its rightful owner and had itself imparted to me the strength and skill to wield it.

Another memory came unbidden, at which again I smiled: Lord Elrond's scolding when I sounded the Horn, as the Fellowship set forth from Imladris. All too well I could see how I must have appeared to the Elf-Lord: a posing fool who could not take one step on a journey without tooting a horn to announce his prowess.

Yet still I would argue that point with him, although my brother might well smile and shake his head and take Lord Elrond's side in the debate.

When I sounded the Horn at the start of each voyage, the thought was with me that I summoned each of my ancestors, each Man who in his turn had borne the Horn of Gondor. That ritual for me had been almost a prayer, a prayer that I might worthily bear the charge that was laid upon me. Always the call of the Horn had lightened my heart and my steps, no matter how dark might be the journey before me.

I let my hand rest for one moment longer upon the Horn. Then I stepped back, away from the Horn of Gondor and from my father.

We stood in silent vigil for the Lord Denethor as the day's last light slowly faded. The four candles gave the only light, until the full moon touched the hall's high windows, to cast its silver glow alike upon the faces of living and dead. For long hours the moon stood our companion. Then it too sank away, leaving the candles and the first hint of the dawn.

In the hour of the dawning, the candles died. Still we stood at our posts, as the morning crept through the open door.

The bell of the Citadel rang once, its single note summoning us from the realm of death.

With our vigil's end, no such ceremony was upon us as had held sway in its beginning. Each of the funeral party was free now to speak to his companions as he chose. Faramir and I shared a quick embrace and a weary smile. Then I went to join Pippin in helping Master Cosimo from his chair, while Faramir crossed to converse in quiet tones with Éomer and Éowyn of Rohan.

In slowness born now more of weary limbs than of the etiquette of funeral, we made our way once more to the Silent Street. Svip was the last of us to step away from Lord Denethor's bier. I held out my hand to him and spoke his name. He tore his gaze from my father's face and reluctantly walked to my side.

"We must leave him now, Svip," I said. "Our duty to him is finished. We can do nothing more for him."

"Nothing?" he whispered. As we walked together from the House of the Stewards, I knew that my friend did not have the answers he sought.

In the street our procession re-formed, while the halls of cold marble at our either side gleamed in the light of the morning. The Citadel Guards and the Riders of Rohan followed us. Last of all came Húrin Keeper of the Keys, crossing into daylight and closing the door to the House of the Stewards behind him.

* * *

By the Porter's cottage at Fen Hollen, a messenger awaited our return from the Silent Street. One of Uncle Imrahil's Swan Knights, he had arrived in Minas Tirith long enough ago to remove the stains of travel, and he looked more rested by far than we who had passed the night on vigil in the Hallows.

Clearly the knight had been informed of events in the City and the change in succession. He bowed to Faramir and greeted him, "Hail, Steward of Gondor. I am Finarphir Son of Celepharn. I bear letters from My Lord the Prince of Dol Amroth and from Lord Aragorn of the Dúnedain."

"Hail and welcome, Sir Knight," Faramir replied. "I go to the Tower Hall for the Ceremony of Investiture, and will read your letters after, if their content will permit of the delay. Yet tell me first what you can: how fare your lord and our armies? Where did you part from them?"

Finarphir departed from formality to allow himself a grin of delight. "At the Field of Cormallen, My Lord, and I left them in victory! From the Black Gate we marched on Cair Andros, and there took the fortress after two days of fighting. The Orcs who held the island are put to the sword. It is two days since I set forth, and none of the foe did I see on all the road from Cormallen to the White City. Our army is like to be not far behind me; the captains proposed setting out on the day after I left, if certain of the wounded were felt to be well enough rested. Prince Imrahil bade me assure you in person, My Lords," – this last he said looking from Faramir to me – "that the army will encamp at the Causeway Forts, and the Lord of the Dúnedain proposes making no request of the Council until he has consulted with you and learned how things may stand in Minas Tirith."

"I thank you for this news," said Faramir. He glanced behind us to where Pippin and Merry, among our comrades, both looked ready to burst from the strain of not leaping in with their questions. "There is more I would ask you. You made mention of the wounded. Know you among them two halflings, Frodo Son of Drogo and Samwise Gamgee?"

Again the knight smiled. "They are known to all, My Lord, for it is said that to them we owe the destruction of the Dark Lord himself. They were the wounded of whom I spoke; it is to see them rested and on the road to recovery that the army has lingered at Cormallen. Ere I set forth, both were well enough to leave their tent, and they joined in the feasting after our capture of Cair Andros. I doubt not that their progress continues well, and that our forces have marched ere now."

Pippin finally broke in, "You've seen them?" then he looked abashed until a smile and nod from Faramir reassured him.

"Aye, Master Halfling," the Swan Knight answered, bowing to Pippin, "I saw them at the feast, sitting with Lord Mithrandir, the Lord of the Dúnedain, Prince Legolas and Gimli the Dwarf. No injuries did I see upon them; they seemed tired and worn, but I could see on them no other ill."

"You are welcome for your own sake, Sir Finarphir," Faramir said to him, "as well as for the news you bring. We go now to the White Tower. Will you join the company there, that your lord's people may have representation in the Ceremony of Investiture among the assembled captains?"

The knight bowed his thanks.

When first I explained to our halfling friends the schedule of the funeral and the Ceremony of Investiture, Pippin's reaction had been vintage Hobbit. Appalled, he had stared at me, and protested that the new Steward was given no time to have breakfast. Nor, of course – though Pippin did not mention this – were any of his attendants.

Their determination to serve with honour ensured now that neither Pippin nor Merry made any complaint. Again I thought of how matured they both seemed from when I first had known them, when they had accompanied our journey's first days with a seemingly endless litany on eating.

Through the bright gaze of the morning and the shadows of the Citadel Tunnel we retraced our steps, until we stood in the Court of the Fountain. The Courtyard was empty now of crowds, with only the guards, as usual, at the gate and the Tower door.

Here once again the order of our procession reversed. Húrin of the Keys led the way, the guards bowing and opening the door before him. Éomer, Éowyn and Elfhelm followed, with Meriadoc and their guard of Riders. After them walked the new addition to our party, the Swan Knight Finarphir Son of Celepharn. The Citadel Guards who had been with us in the House of the Stewards marched next through the shadows of that door. Next came the members of the Steward's immediate household: Cosimo, Pelendur, Pippin, Svip, and finally the Lord Steward's brother and heir.

Faramir would be the last of us to enter the Hall: taking the final steps in his journey to the Stewardship.

We strode once more through the stillness of that long passage, accompanied by the echoes of our footsteps. Once more we stepped through the gleaming Great Door, into the sunlit majesty of the Tower Hall.

This time our procession was watched not only by the cold sightless eyes of the statues of Gondor's kings. Ranked at the Hall's either side, standing before the black pillars and the images of the kings, were the assembled councillors, guildleaders and captains of Gondor.

The far end of the Hall was empty, save for Lord Húrin's secretary Miroslav, standing to the right of the Steward's chair. He held, on a cushion draped with the black and silver of Gondor, the White Rod of the Steward.

The Rohirrim and the lone representative of Dol Amroth took their places to the left of the Steward's Chair. We of the household and the Citadel did the same to the right. The place of Húrin of the Keys was immediately to the right of the chair, close enough to me that I could mark the sheen of sweat at his brow and his bowstring-taut stance.

_For Húrin's sake more than for any of the rest of us,_ thought I, _I thank the Valar that this is nearly over!_

When all of us had taken our places, Faramir Son of Denethor strode alone into the Tower Hall.

Svip, at my side, reached up to touch my hand when Faramir appeared. Though I am certain it did not accord with the solemnity of the moment, I smiled down at him and took his hand.

And I smiled as I watched my brother approach the chair of our ancestors.

_It is right for him to do this, _I thought. _It is right that he should be the one to take the White Rod today. _

And by all the gods, I was glad to be alive to see it. Glad that our fates had so been spun that he took the office of Steward while I was by his side, to serve him and to fight for him – instead of lying a distant corpse beneath the Rauros Falls.

Faramir gave me the smallest of smiles as he reached the Steward's chair. Then he turned and stood before it, to face our people.

Húrin Keeper of the Keys took the White Rod and held it out before Faramir. My brother in turn reached out and clasped his hand upon it.

Lord Húrin declared, "Faramir Son of Denethor: Accept from my hand the White Rod of the Stewards, and with it the powers and duties of thy office."

Húrin released the White Rod from his grasp and stepped back. Faramir stood alone, holding high the Rod of the Stewards before the people of Gondor.

Faramir spoke, his voice ringing strong and true. "I, Faramir Son of Denethor, by right of blood succession Reigning Steward of Gondor: Here do I swear to mete out justice and mercy, to guard with vigilance and honour the welfare of my people, and from the chair of my ancestors to bear faithful rule."

It was now the turn of the captains, lords and councillors assembled. As all of us who served in Gondor's armed forces had done before, when first we were officially accepted into service, the company knelt, facing Faramir and the Throne of the Kings behind him. As one we repeated the Oath of Fealty.

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the Realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end."

And Faramir gave the ritual reply. "And this do I hear, Faramir Son of Denethor, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance."

He lowered his hand that clasped the White Rod of Office, and for the first time he took his seat – in the chair of our ancestors, and of our father.

All of us rose to our feet. I cast smiling glances to Pippin at one side of me and Svip at the other. Pippin was grinning widely, looking near as proud of Faramir as I was myself. Svip gazed at me solemnly, with an expression that I was not able to read.

The Ceremony of Investiture was over. With measured tread our councillors, captains and allies began to file from the Tower Hall. Svip, Pippin, Cosimo and Master Pelendur walked four abreast behind all of the others, the last to leave the new Steward's side.

Three only were left in the Hall: Húrin of the Keys, I, and the Lord Steward of Gondor.

Setting the White Rod in its carven mithril holder to the side of the Steward's Chair, Faramir stood. He murmured, "Thank the Valar _that's_ over." Then he grinned at me, and turned to regard the Keeper of the Keys.

Húrin looked more than a little dazed, and as though the weight of the Hill of Guard had been lifted from his shoulders.

Faramir and I cast an amused look at each other as we studied our stunned companion. Then my brother embraced him, which at least served to recall Lord Húrin to himself.

"Congratulations to you, Húrin," said Faramir.

"My Lord?" the Keeper of the Keys asked, with a questioning smile. "I should be saying that to you, should I not?"

Faramir told him, "I think this has been a more sorely trying day for you than it has for me."

"Aye, well," our friend admitted, "I'd not care to go through another like it, that is certain. Do me a favour, My Lord: do not get yourself killed, and be sure that you have a prodigiously long reign. I've no wish to live another day like this one."

"I'll do my best to oblige you," Faramir answered him.

"Thank you for all of it," I added, clasping the Lord of the Keys' hand. "You can take pride in this day's work, and we are deeply grateful to you."

"Thank you, My Lord," he answered, as we shook hands. He looked again to Faramir. "Is there aught else that you require now?"

"No, there is not. Thank you, Húrin."

The Keeper of the Keys bowed and departed through the side door, seizing the advantage of the moment's lack of ceremony to not follow the lengthy path through the Hall that all others had taken.

Left alone, Faramir and I embraced. As we stepped back, we both asked, almost in the same instant, "You are going to get some sleep?"

Some one or other of our longfathers, may his wisdom be blessed – Húrin of the Keys could likely tell us precisely which of our ancestors that was – had decreed that no other official duties should press upon the new Steward for the rest of the day that begins with his Ceremony of Investiture. I am certain that all of his successors have been grateful to him for the option to snatch a few hours in their beds, rather than being plunged headlong into a full day of meetings.

Knowing Faramir, I doubted that he would take much advantage of our longfather's foresight. But I was determined to see to it that he made at least a token effort at sleep.

"I asked you first," Faramir said, grinning wearily at me. "And anyway, I'm the Steward, so you have to answer me."

"Giving yourself airs already?" I teased back. "Yes, all right, I am going to get some sleep. Svip and I are going for our swim, and then I promised Svip, Merry and Pippin breakfast. But then I'll sleep, I promise. And you?"

"Yes," he said. "I will. I'm going to have a look at the dispatches from Imrahil and Aragorn first. I'll send for you if there's anything in them that can't wait, but otherwise I'll just send them on to you. I suppose I'll have something to eat while I'm reading them. But then, yes. I will get some sleep, I promise."

With that vow to each other we headed our separate ways.

Svip was waiting for me in the Court of the Fountain, sitting on the Fountain's wall and trailing his feet in the water.

We had a quiet journey to and from the River that morning. Svip vouchsafed only monosyllabic replies to my few comments, and I determined that what he needed from me now might simply be time. I should not expect some miraculous recovery on his part. I should not think that with the close of my father's funeral, Svip would suddenly bound forth, my ebullient friend as of old. I could only hope that his recovery would come – and that some of it, at least, might come before he left to journey to his home.

On our return to my townhouse we found Pippin and Merry in the courtyard there, keeping themselves awake by engaging in a game of marbles with my young esquire Balamir. Both Hobbits seemed all but asleep on their feet, but they held exhaustion at bay with the marbles and the promise of a decent breakfast.

Dame Weltrude must have been growing used to odd instructions from me regarding the eating habits of my guests. The Mistress of my Kitchen had looked only mildly disapproving this time, when I reminded her of Svip's tastes in raw fish and vegetables, and she accepted with the occasional raised eyebrow my description of Hobbits' culinary practices. I suppose that as a cook she enjoyed the challenge of preparing a meal for such dedicated gormandizers as Hobbits.

My three friends showed every sign of appreciating Weltrude's efforts. Svip made his quiet but steady way through the fish and the salad of radishes and leeks, and the two Hobbits made inroads on the breakfast that a small company of Rangers could scarcely have matched. The mushroom pie that Weltrude had prepared at my suggestion, I was pleased to note, they finished down to the last crumb.

During that breakfast I told our friends what Faramir and I had not been at liberty to tell them until after our father's funeral. I told them of Faramir's and my new status as official suitors of Lady Éowyn.

Pippin greeted the news with open delight. Svip listened with a frown of troubled confusion. Merry seemed more troubled than the water creature, his scowl growing darker the longer I talked.

"You'll each have a role to play in our courtships, I believe, if you are willing," I told them. "Etiquette requires that the lady and her suitor each have an attendant with them during any time spent together. They must remain within sight of those attendants at all times, though expectations are a bit more lax on whether one should always remain in earshot. I should be honoured to have you as my attendant, Svip, if you will. I know Faramir plans to ask you, Pippin; he said he would send for you this afternoon to speak with you of it, after everyone's had a bit of sleep. And I've little doubt that Lady Éowyn will want you to attend on her, Merry."

Svip suddenly demanded, "Is it normal?"

The rest of us turned to him in surprise.

He elaborated, "I mean, so soon after your father ..."

"It is relatively normal," I answered. "We could not officially take our place as suitors until after Father's funeral. But with that now passed, I believe few would judge we are acting over-hastily." With a smile, I added, "Certainly I think Father would have no complaint. He expended enough verbiage in urging me to take a wife."

Merry spoke up, still with a pre-occupied frown. "If you have a few minutes, Boromir – if everyone's done – could I speak with you in private?"

As if Merry's expression were not indication enough, for a Hobbit to urge the end of a meal told clearly that something serious was afoot. Pippin cast a few regretful glances at the recently refilled teapot and a brimming plate of scones, but he offered to walk Svip back to the Fountain. When they left, Pippin was telling Svip about courting customs in the Shire.

"What is it, Merry?" I asked, when the two of us were alone.

"It isn't easy to talk about," he said. "And it's probably not my place to tell you about it, either. But I just feel – there are some things that might affect your actions. Things you ought to know."

I nodded, and waited.

"In Rohan, before we rode with the Éored ... there was a warrior that Lady Éowyn admired. I don't know for certain, but I think – I think she told him of her feelings, and he told her that his heart was already pledged. And after that, that's when she disguised herself as Dernhelm and rode to Minas Tirith."

Merry went on in haste, "I don't mean that's the only reason she went with the Éored. It isn't, I'm sure of that. She did want to fight for her people, and she couldn't bear being left at home to wait. But I think – I think if he'd told her something different, she might have decided differently. I think what he told her helped her feel that there wasn't any hope. That the only thing left for her was to fight and hopefully be killed."

Solemnly he told me, "I know you and Faramir wouldn't willingly do anything to hurt her. I just thought – that maybe if you knew about this, it might change something you say or do. I thought it might help if you knew."

"Thank you, Merry," I said to him. "Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me."

My young Hobbit friend took his still-scowling departure, leaving me to ponder the insight he had given me.

_Bloody hell, _I thought. _Bloody hell, it is Aragorn, isn't it?_

The Chieftain of the Dúnedain fit the timing and description perfectly. A mysterious paladin arriving in Rohan just as the darkness was descending on all of us; I could see that he might have seemed to bring hope and adventure to a valiant lady whose life had seemed devoid of both. And Aragorn fit the description of one whose heart was pledged, since he was betrothed to Arwen the Daughter of Elrond.

_It matters nothing, _I told myself. _Aragorn's not a rival that either you or Faramir need concern yourselves about, because he's been silly enough to get himself betrothed to that haughty Elven piece._

The instant I had thought it, I took myself to task for thinking of the lady with such disrespect.

_But, _I thought with a mental shrug, _I have been all night at my father's funeral and I've just learned that the lady I am courting may harbour fondness for the Man whom my father hated most in Middle Earth – well, and with whom I have a somewhat troubled history, too. I think I may be forgiven a few less-than-polite thoughts._

The more I thought on it, the more I believed I'd been correct in my guess that Aragorn was the warrior of whom Merry spoke.

I thought back to the morning when our armies marched for the Black Gate. I recalled Lady Éowyn riding along the column to speak for some moments with Aragorn, and I remembered her angry blush and the bleak look upon her face as she rode back to join those of us who remained behind.

_I'm an idiot, aren't I, _I thought, _not to have realized it before._

I wondered if Faramir had already discerned Éowyn's feelings. Knowing his usual insight, he probably had. It was no surprise that he had not mentioned it to me. Quite apart from the fact that it would be highly indelicate for us to discuss the lady's feelings, Faramir probably assumed that I'd go into some sort of legendary rage if I learned that Aragorn was our rival on _this_ front, on top of everything else.

Doubtless he would not mention it to Éowyn, either, unless she spoke of it first. And no more would I.

If Aragorn was indeed the Man in Merry's revelation, I did not believe he was an active rival to Faramir and me. Nothing I had seen of him gave me cause to think that he would betray his betrothed, or ever take any liberties with a lady. Whether he might be our passive rival, however, that I did not know. If her regard for him led Lady Éowyn to reject our suits ...

_Well, and what if it does? _I demanded of myself. In truth, such an outcome was the best we could hope for in those circumstances. We would have to trust that the lady's honesty and noble heart would indeed cause her to turn us down, rather than accept either of us while she still nursed hopeless dreams of the Ranger of the North.

_Nothing ever can be simple, can it? _I thought. _Valar, perhaps I should take the easy route and marry Húrin of the Keys' sister. Only then I would have to listen to her for the rest of my life._

I left the Great Hall and betook myself to my office. Gavrilo had been waiting for me to emerge from breakfast, and delivered to me the packet of letters sent on by Faramir.

Faramir had accompanied the letters with a brief covering note. In this he told me that the official dispatches both from Imrahil and Aragorn were addressed to our father, since at the time of penning these, they'd had no tidings of his death. Both were formal reports of the battles met by the Army of the West. In Aragorn's case, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain had added that he would encamp with our forces at the Causeway Forts, and there wait until he could consult with the Lord Steward upon our next course of action. Faramir mentioned also that Aragorn had included letters to Merry and to Pippin, which Faramir had now sent on to them.

I turned to my own letters from Imrahil and Aragorn. Both included accounts of their battles, but they were far from being official dispatches.

Uncle Imrahil had not forgotten his promise to me on the day they marched for Mordor, to bring me back a detailed description of the Desolate Lands. True to his sense of humour, he had turned his description into a tongue-in-cheek travelogue. Nor was his letter all he had sent to me. Knowing of my collection of maps, my uncle sent what he titled "A New and Complete Map of the Lands of Shadow," with the locations of all our army's camps, skirmishes and battles marked upon it.

The map is little more than a sketch, yet it now holds a place of pride in my collection, as a souvenir of so pivotal a moment in the life of our country. Uncle Imrahil drew it himself, and included copious notations in his inimitable style. I grinned as spread out the map on my desk and studied it. The straightforward notations such as "Here the Men of the West skirmished with a force of Orcs and Easterlings," "Here all vegetation ceases," and "Here Prince Legolas of Mirkwood first sighted Nazgûl overhead" were interspersed with comments like "Here the Prince Imrahil sliced open one of his boot soles upon a razor-sharp rock, and had to mend it with a sewing kit borrowed from Lord Aragorn of the Dúnedain."

Setting my uncle's map and travelogue aside, I turned with some reluctance to the missive from Aragorn.

The Northman had been careful to make no comment that might incriminate me to my father had he read it, scrupulously steering clear of any reference to his claim to the throne. I was grateful for his delicacy in this, although the fact remained that receiving any correspondence from Aragorn would have been sufficient to earn me the bitter suspicion of my father.

Aragorn's letter, when its brief account of the battles was done, focussed upon the tale of Frodo and Samwise.

Even knowing, as I did, that the two Hobbits had won through to safety – to safety and to the salvation of all of us – I yet thrilled with wonder and fear as I read.

Aragorn penned the account in simple, unvarnished prose, yet the most elaborate of skald's verses could not have held more hair's-breadth escapes or crushing horror.

Aragorn wrote, "_You know, from Faramir, of Frodo and Sam's journey from Rauros to Henneth Annun. When they parted from Faramir, they journeyed with Gollum to the Cross Roads and the Morgul-Road._ _Frodo tells me that although that voyage was haunted by mistrust of their guide, they may well owe their successful passage to the offices of Gollum. He pushed them to move when they needed to, and several times he concealed them from the watchers of the Enemy._

"_The Ring, Frodo said, was calling him to Minas Morgul, but Sam and Gollum pulled him back. They had a near brush with the Wraith King, when he set forth with the forces of Morgul for the assault on Gondor. Gollum led Frodo and Sam to a tunnel beneath Cirith Ungol, where their guide betrayed them as they had feared. In, as I suppose, a bid to reclaim the Ring, Gollum lured the Hobbits to the lair of a creature like a gigantic spider, and abandoned them there. Frodo then used the gift that we saw the Lady Galadriel hand to him on our parting from Lothlorien, the phial of light, and for a time the light held their stalker at bay. They had reached the end of the tunnel, at the pass of Cirith Ungol, when Gollum reappeared and attacked Sam, leaving Frodo to face the spider alone. Sam fought off their treacherous guide and reached the scene of battle in time to put the beast to flight. But the creature had already wounded Frodo with its venom, leaving him in a state so that Sam believed him dead."_

I had to stop reading for a moment there, and I rubbed my hands over my face. Fury and grief swept through me, that the Hobbits had needed to endure that journey – and that the rest of us had been gone from them, that they had to endure it alone. I cursed, as I had cursed so often before, the Council of the Wise for sending them, Mithrandir for not seeing his way to destroying the Ring years before, when first it reappeared – and myself, for my betrayal at Amon Hen. My betrayal without which, perhaps, the Fellowship might have continued unbroken, with nine of us instead of two, to face together the horrors of that shadow land.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, I compelled myself to continue reading.

Aragorn wrote, "_I doubt that any of us can imagine what it cost Sam to leave Frodo there, to take the Ring himself and continue onward alone. Take it he did, and he started into the Nameless Land. Hiding from Orcs, he put on the Ring. It was thus he learned that the Orcs had taken Frodo – not dead, as Sam supposed, but for the moment paralysed by the monster's venom. Determined to rescue his master, Sam followed them._

"_Sam told me that when he crossed into Mordor, to the Tower of Cirith Ungol where Frodo was imprisoned, he took off the Ring. He believes that only thus did he escape the Dark Lord's sight. Sam made his way to the Orcs' stronghold, and there found that Frodo's captors were fallen into fighting amongst themselves, quarrelling over their prisoner's mithril shirt. In the midst of this disarray, Sam was able to rescue Frodo, and returned the Ring to him. Together, dressed in clothing taken from the Orcs, they set out once more for the Mountain of Fire._

"_It was the day of the Battle of Minas Tirith. Frodo and Sam saw, in the west, the Enemy's darkness break into sunlight, when the Rohirrim rode across the Pelennor Fields and Lady Éowyn slew the Nazgûl King. Revived by the knowledge that some tide of the war might be turning, they were able to press on._

"_Neither Frodo nor Sam have spoken much of the remainder of that journey. They kept themselves alive on the water of streams they encountered, and the last remnants of the _lembas_ of Lorien. The armies of Mordor were on the move, marching north as we now know to meet our army's advance. The Hobbits were able to turn this to their advantage for a time, marching with one of the enemy's columns in the guise of two of the smaller Orcs. _

"_On their journey from time to time they again caught sight of Gollum, tracking them. They made their way onward to Mount Doom, day after endless day, until finally, in the last ebbing vestiges of their strength, they reached its slopes. Crawling up the mountain's path, they were attacked by Gollum, who attempted to seize the Ring. Sam tells me that he would have slain Gollum then, but that some unaccountable impulse stayed his hand. Gollum fled, but yet kept ever upon their trail._

"_They came at last to the Crack of Doom. There, Frodo tells me, the Ring made a last bid for its life. Instead of hurling the Ring to destruction, Frodo would have kept it for his own. But in that instant, on the brink of the precipice, Gollum attacked once more. He and Frodo fought for the Ring, and Gollum bit off the Ring and Frodo's finger along with it. And there, whether by accident or to find the peace of self-immolation, Gollum with the Ring in his grasp toppled into the flame._

"_Then did the Hobbits truly believe all was at an end for them. But the Great Eagles flew over the battlefield at the Black Gate, while we yet reeled from the cataclysm of the Ring. Mithrandir rode with the Windlords to Orodruin, to seek the Ringbearer and his companion. There, hemmed in by molten rock and fire, Mithrandir and the eagles found them, and bore them to us in safety._

"_Days passed before either Frodo or Sam awoke. They came to themselves at last while we were encamped at Cormallen, during our fight to re-take Cair Andros._

"_Mad though it seems to say it, after all that they have suffered, I think I can truly state that both of them are well. They are of course yet weak in body, but the great burden that is gone from both of them makes all else seem light."_

Aragorn conclued the tale, "_I have spoken with Frodo several times since he and Sam awoke. We have spoken of your return, and I believe him when he tells me of his joy to know that you live, and his wish to see you and speak with you as soon as may be. Sam, as you may not be surprised to learn, is less eager for such a meeting. But his master's wishes count for all with him, and knowing that this is what Frodo wants, he will not stand in your way._

"_For my part, I look forward with joy even as Frodo does, to the day when the Fellowship of Nine are reunited._

"_Your comrade in the service of Gondor, Aragorn."_

I carefully folded the letter and put it aside, attempting to put aside also the turmoil of emotions it raised in me.

_They are well, _I told myself, _that is the main thing. They are well, or as well as they can be, and in their victory, all Middle Earth has triumphed. What they endured has won life for our world._

_And speaking of life, _I thought, _there is a letter that I, too, must write._

Swiftly, though trying to take more care of my handwriting than unusual, I penned a note to the Lady Éowyn. I told her that I was at her command; that Council sessions were like to take up many of my mornings, but that any afternoon or evening was hers if she so wished.

Mindful of my vow to Faramir – and hoping that he was equally mindful of his vow to me – I allowed myself that day the luxury of a few hours of sleep. I was rewarded for this responsible behaviour, for when I awoke it was to find that a note awaited me from Lady Éowyn. The Lady of Rohan appointed the next afternoon for our meeting, at the Seventh Hour at the barracks of the Rohirrim.

At the Third Hour that next morn, another day of pure and vivid sunlight, the Council of Gondor assembled for its first official session of Faramir's reign. Not yet a meeting of the full Council, for many of our captains were yet with the army on their return from Mordor, this was the first occasion on which we could formally gather as the Council within the Tower Hall.

A strange experience was that first Council session. Strange without doubt it was for Faramir and for me, but I will wager it was the same for every Man present.

So much seemed unchanged. Almost it could have been any other Council meeting since my fifteenth year when I began attending the Council as fully-invested Captain-General of Gondor. The same Men were seated in that semi-circle of chairs facing the Steward's Chair. There were the same voices and the same arguments, so familiar that more oft than not I could predict the discussion's turns before ever they were spoken.

And yet there was the one great difference, that imparted to all that odd sense of dissonance. It was the lack of my father's voice; the strangeness of hearing the quiet and reasonable tones of Faramir, when beyond a doubt all of us were listening for the cold, flaying sarcasm of Denethor Son of Ecthelion.

As Faramir and I had expected, a major topic of discussion that day was the repairs that I had authorised on Minas Tirith's abandoned houses and the Great Stone Bridge of Osgiliath – repairs for which I had paid from my own purse.

True to my expectation, there was little debate on the work at Minas Tirith. The Council was largely agreed on the necessity of such work, with only slight dark mutterings on the expense. After some token debate they voted to approve the repairs and to authorise my reimbursement.

The Osgiliath reconstruction efforts were a different question entirely.

I did not launch into a presentation on all the plans I had been hatching. Now, with the kingdom yet reeling from the late invasion and with the countless expenses of recovery upon us, was not the time to propose a capital project that demanded the commitment of money and manpower for years or even decades to come.

I did speak briefly of my father's idea that we might re-populate Osgiliath by offering housing to all of our people who would settle there. But that, I acknowledged, was a discussion for another day.

I spoke instead of our work, now more than half concluded, to restore the Great Stone Bridge. I argued that with the plans already drawn up and with all the stones recovered from the bosom of the river, it would be wasteful in the extreme to abandon the work now. When we sought to hearten our people and state our renewed claim to the eastern shore, what better way to assert our fledgling dominion than by rebuilding a permanent link between west and east?

Eppa of the Stonemasons' Guild added his voice to mine in speaking for the project's completion. To be sure – as several other Councillors observed – it was his guild that would receive payment for the project, so it was no surprise that he should speak for it. But there was also the artist's pride at work in his arguments. Greatly would it have galled each Man of the Stonemasons' Guild to see their work abandoned and each lovingly recovered stone left to crumble on Anduin's shore.

The Chief Healer asked if the Stonemasons would be willing to donate the cost of the project. Eppa answered that the guild was already donating its Mens' wages for the work, and the expense to Gondor was at a sizeable discount, reflecting only the costs of the project itself. As the predictable argument began to turn 'round and 'round upon expenses, I interjected that I would swallow the expenses thus far and would happily donate the rest of the cost, if only the Council would give their authority for the project to continue.

This set off another debate. Some of the Councillors argued that Gondor should not become so indebted to any private individual, no matter how prominent, and that it set a dangerous precedent for public works to be funded from out of a private purse.

At last it was Faramir who brought the arguments to an end. "Gentlemen," he said, "if we are all agreed that the project itself serves Gondor, and it is only the expense that troubles us, let us not turn away a gift that is offered out of loyalty to our country. Let us accept Lord Boromir's donation of the expenses to date, and I will add my own donation to his and pay the costs that remain. It will be our private coffers that bear the burden, not the Treasury of the Steward. Will this answer the need?"

The debate had to go on for some minutes more, of course. But in essence it was ended there, for the Lord Steward had spoken.

"And," said Faramir in an undertone to me, as the meeting was dispersing, "we're damned well going to make sure this thing gets named the Boromir and Faramir Bridge. Or," he mused, "maybe the Boromir, Faramir, Zvonimir and Fjolmod Bridge, in honour of our battle and swimming exhibition last summer."

"We're setting a dangerous precedent, you know," I quoted Master Hunthjof of the Brewers' and Vintners' Guild, and I shook my head. "I don't think they need worry about me continuing to follow this particular precedent. Many more civic improvements like this, and the only thing I'll be funding is a pawn shop."

I fear I did but little justice to the nuncheon that Dame Weltrude prepared that day, for the Seventh Hour was rapidly drawing closer.

At last the hour was nigh upon us. Svip met me at my townhouse, and we walked together to the Third Level, to the Barracks of the Rohirrim. Svip seemed his now-usual grim and quiet self. For my part, I strove to quell my nerves and not to feel _quite _so much like a bashful schoolboy.

We found Éowyn and Merry at the barracks stables. As the lady and I were exchanging greetings, the thought came to me that Merry seemed almost as dour as Svip these days, with a frown the expression one was most likely to see upon him. I thought back to our conversation of a few evenings before, when he had spoken of his doubts on whether he wished to return to the Shire.

I wondered if it were that, still, which troubled him, or if he still harboured concerns about the business of Faramir's and my courtships.

Whatever the cause of his concern, he made an effort on this occasion, and greeted me with a brief, encouraging smile.

Lady Éowyn proposed that we should go for a ride – a suggestion none too surprising, since she was of the Rohirrim. On her question of where we should ride, I answered after a moment's thought, "What of the foothills of Mindolluin? I spent countless hours in my youth climbing the slope there. It provides excellent vantage points over all the City."

We set forth. I rode upon Svip, while Lady Éowyn's steed was one of those she had trained to better endure Svip's presence, and Merry's pony also had gone through some of the training.

We took the ride at an easy canter. Éowyn had left no room for argument when she declared, as we left the Rohirrim barracks, "We have no need for haste, I think. The Healers will thank me not at all if you re-injure your ribs through too great exertion."

The day seemed to have been fashioned for such a pastime as this, to ride forth in the sunshine with the young lady one is courting at one's side.

The joyous spring sunlight seemed to impart added radiance to her beauty, gleaming on the pure snow of her skin and the golden waterfall that was her hair. As I watched her hair fly free behind her, a thought came to me of a comment that my late wife had been wont to make. She had oft observed in joking bitterness, while struggling with wind-knotted tangles in her hair, that _some_ women's hair had an alliance with the wind, and came out looking more silken and attractive than ever, no matter what kind of tempest was blowing.

Her cousin Éowyn, I thought, was one of those women.

When we reached the rise where the foothills begin, we rode for a while longer over the gentle hills that gleamed with a bright spring carpet of white and yellow flowers. We dismounted at the point where the grass and flowers yield to the steeper, rock-strewn slope. Leaving Svip and Merry with the horses – and, I feared, to no very entertaining conversation, given each of them's apparent state of mind – Lady Éowyn and I commenced our climb.

We spoke little until we reached a patch of level ground perhaps a third of the way to Mindolluin's lowest crest. This miniature meadow is blessed with a selection of boulders admirably arranged to serve as seats, and is a spot that has lured many a painter – and, I doubt not, many a trysting couple.

When the Lady of Rohan and I had chosen each a boulder seat, she began, "I hope that this ... situation will not cause ill feeling between you and the lord your brother."

I was almost certain I detected a trace of humour behind her usual solemnity.

"We are determined that it will not," I said. "I hope, Lady, that the obligation to spend time with both of us is not too great an interference in your life. I know that you value your time with the patrol. If I should seek too much of your time, do not hesitate to tell me …"

Now she smiled in definite amusement. "My Lord, of my own will I consented to consider both of your suits. And it helps to prevent me finding time on my hands, for which I am truly grateful. I see you do not know: since my brother's return to Minas Tirith he has forbade me to continue riding with the patrol."

"I see," I said. I was taken aback at the news. I found myself wondering, _Can Éomer be so courageous – and so foolhardy – as to prevent his sister from serving a cause she so loves? _

Rohan's new king was a brave Man, of that there could be no doubt. His wisdom, on the other hand, left a great deal to be desired.

"I am sorry," I told Éomer's sister.

"Riding in defence of one's people is not fitting, apparently, for the sister of a king," Éowyn observed, her smile touched slightly with scorn. "Since I suspect that my brother's idea of what _is_ fitting consists of sitting by the window doing needlepoint, I am grateful to you and Lord Faramir for any time you can spare me from that."

"My Lady," said I, "it will be my honour to rescue you from needlepoint at any time you may wish."

She bowed her head to me in thanks. For a moment she glanced away, her gaze passing over the River's valley to the dark mountains far beyond. When she turned back to me her face was again solemn, and her eyes glittered as steel.

"There is a serious question I would ask of you, My Lord," she said, "upon a related subject. Would you forbid your wife to be a shieldmaiden? Would you share my royal brother's belief of what is appropriate, if the woman concerned were your wife?"

For long moments I considered her question. "It is not an easy question to answer," I admitted. "I confess it would be no easy matter for me to accept that I must allow my wife to go into situations of peril. Yet I would be a selfish fool did I deprive our countries of a warrior of skill and valour. I would be still more a fool were I to take from her a pursuit for which she cares so deeply. I have no wish to spark resentment in my wife's heart. Resentment there would be, and rightly so, did I steal from her so valued a part of her life."

She had been looking away, toward the eastward as I spoke. But now she turned to me, with a rueful smile. "My brother the King could learn much wisdom from you, My Lord."

I grinned to think of how closely her comment echoed my own recent thought on Éomer's wisdom, or the lack thereof. "I am honoured that you think so, Lady," I said, bowing my head to her, "though few enough would share your opinion. I believe you are the first person I have ever heard credit me with wisdom."

The Lady Éowyn grinned back at me. "That is nothing new to me, Lord," she replied. "I am well used to my opinions being numbered amid the minority."

As though suddenly afeared of feeling too much at ease, she stood up and took a few hasty steps away. Likely she would have begun to pace, if our rocky promontory had allowed room for such action.

As I stood in turn, she turned back toward me with a nervous-seeming smile. "One thing that I am not used to," Éowyn went on, glancing aside again and fretfully shoving a lock of hair back from her face, "is this business of being courted. You'll forgive me if I seem at times … uncertain of how to conduct myself. It is new to me to find myself the object of such attention."

I wondered if she were telling me more than she truly wished to. Her cheeks were burning crimson, and she seemed to rush the words out against her better judgement. I began, "My Lady, you owe me no explanations –"

"No," she said, turning her gaze now steadily on me. "I want you to understand how strange this is to me. Until now … until now, the only Men who seemed to notice me were themselves not worthy of my notice. And the Men whom I admired … I looked up to them as a child looks up to her heroes, as gods to be worshipped and emulated, but who would never be close enough to be touched."

Of a certainty I did not know what to say to that. I settled on, "Believe me, Lady, I am no old hand at the courtship business either. We will both be seeking to find our right path in this. And I hope that we will both forgive each other's stumbling."

Somehow it seemed that my stumbling had led me to at least one right thing to say. She smiled, perhaps in amusement and perhaps in gratitude. "Yes," she said. "Yes, we will." Then again she was in motion, sparing me from having to think of what to say next. "Come on," she said, starting to stride further up the rough-hewn path. "Let us climb up higher."

I looked back to Svip and Merry, in the meadow below. Both of them seemed to be looking up toward us. I waved at them. Svip made no response, and it was long enough until Merry replied that I thought perhaps he had not seen me. But then the Hobbit waved back, and I turned to follow Lady Éowyn.

After some further minutes' climb, she turned to me with a sudden look of concern. "Is the climb taking you too far from the River?" she asked. "I am sorry; I should have thought of that."

"No," I replied, "I am no farther from Anduin here than I am in the City. I assure you, I will let you know if I feel any ill effects."

"Yes," she said, in a sceptical tone, "I am sure you will. Just as I would be sure to admit it were my broken arm causing me pain. I am personally familiar with this breed of assurance, and its reliability."

I laughed. "Very well, Lady of Rohan, I grant you that point. But now I vow to you upon my honour that I am not in any difficulty."

"Then I must accept your word," she conceded, with the hint of a smile. She glanced back down the mountainside below us, and my gaze followed hers. "At any event," Éowyn went on, "we should stop now before we climb out of Merry and Svip's sight – for the sake of their honour, as much as ours. I have no doubt my brother will feel it his duty to interrogate them on whether we remained in their sight at all times."

She stepped out onto a table-like ledge that would no doubt have had her lord brother in fits, imagining that the ledge would break and send her toppling to Mindolluin's foot. I leaned back against a nearby boulder, content to gaze at her while she gazed out over my City.

"You said you've climbed up here many times, in the past?" she asked at last, turning back to look at me.

"Yes," I said, "all the time, when I was a child. Often enough that I think I could make the climb blindfolded, now. I used to climb up here when I'd had a fight with my father, or just when I had something to think about, and wanted to be alone. When I was older, and had more duties, and couldn't afford being long away, I started climbing to the top of the White Tower, instead. The view from there, and from here … I suppose it is comforting, somehow, as if – as though when I can see the entire City, I can protect it, I can keep it safe. The way our stories say that Mindolluin guards the White City."

"Yes," she agreed, nodding and looking deep in thought. "I used to think the same thing. Not," she added, with a smile, "that I was ever permitted to go gadding off climbing mountains. But from my window when I was a child, one could see over almost all of Edoras. I would sit there for hours and tell myself that I was our people's guardian, watching over all of them and holding them safe in my care."

Her gaze was distant a moment longer. Then suddenly she laughed, a bright and carefree sound that was as good to hear as it was unusual for her. "So," she said, "I suppose I used to _almost _fulfil my brother's image of appropriate maidenly behaviour. Only I was staring out my window daydreaming, instead of working on my needlepoint."

I stated my opinion, "Since the daydreaming led you to become the warrior who slew the King of the Nazgûl, I think we may safely say it had more value than a few pieces of needlepoint."

She looked at me, and what seemed to be pleased surprise coloured her face. Again, then, she made something of a tactical retreat, turning to look upon the White City once more.

"I need to improve my understanding of Minas Tirith's geography," said she. "I have been attempting to spot our barracks down there; I keep thinking that I have them, and then I lose track of them again. I think – yes. There. Those four buildings with the red roofs."

I went to her side, and followed with my gaze the line along which she was pointing. "You are right," I told her. "You can always recognize the Third Level's barracks; the stable roof was repaired a few years back, and has those darker-coloured tiles."

"Yes," she said, nodding, "I see."

For some moments then I was stymied in my search for something else to say. I hardly thought that the roofs of Minas Tirith were likely to rank among the topics that Lady Éowyn would find most interesting to discuss.

But thinking of the roofs brought to my mind a question for which I, at least, was eager to find the answer.

"I wonder how many of our new repairs can be seen," I mused aloud, adding in explanation, "the work we've been doing to prepare for our people's return."

"Let us find out," she said.

So the Lady of Rohan and I set about counting all of the houses that seemed marked with the newest roofs. Éowyn took charge of the even levels of the City and I took the odd. Between us we reached a rough tally of just over two hundred houses that seemed to show new work.

Of course, not all of the houses we'd repaired with the Office of Rehousing had needed work on their roofs. And from our vantage-point in the foothills, the lady and I could see clearly only those portions of Minas Tirith south of the Prow of the City.

I wondered how desperately I was boring the lady. But if bored she was, she hid it with aplomb.

I know not whether Lady Éowyn ended that afternoon with her opinion of me changed in any way. If change there was, I know not if it were for the better, or the worse. For my part, the afternoon confirmed for me that the Lady of Rohan would make a splendid wife.

I thought that I could scarcely ask for better than a woman who triumphed on the battlefield and who could, with such good humour, throw herself into a project so dull as counting roof tops.

As I was thinking this, she turned from studying the City, and remarked with a smile, "I keep expecting that if I just look closely enough, I will see Pippin up on one of those roofs, working on the repairs."

"He had better not be," I said. "I've no wish to face Merry and explain how his cousin came to fall off a roof while under my command."

"There's another new roof," said Éowyn, gazing at the White City again. "On the tower of the Steward's Library. That's not the work of the Office of Rehousing? Your lord brother, I should think, might be the only Man of the City interested in living there."

"No, that's true," I told her. "The roof was leaking there, three winters or so ago. Faramir was the one who noticed it; he was probably the first Man to set foot in that room for months. You recognized the Steward's Library," I asked her then, "have you been there?"

"Yes, just yesterday. With Lord Faramir."

_Oh, _thought I.

It was, of course, assuredly no business of mine, thanks to our mutual oath to make no inquiries into the progress of each others' wooing. But I could not stop myself from thinking, _Well, there in a nutshell you see the difference between my brother and myself._

_On our first official outings with a lady, I go mountain-climbing with her, and he takes her to the library._

Which destination the Lady Éowyn might find preferable, time and our fates had not yet told.

A few minutes longer the lady and I spent in discussing the landmarks of Minas Tirith. Then she said, gazing down at the meadow below us, "Perhaps we should return to our friends. There is a limit to the number of daisy chains one can weave and yet remain sane. I fear we must rescue them from their boredom."

_Rescue them, My Lady, _I wondered, _or rescue you? _

_Perhaps, _I thought, _the library was the better idea after all._

About halfway down the rocky slope is a point where the path narrows, one side bordered by a wall of tall boulders, the other side treacherous with loose rocks. As we walked down this path the Lady Éowyn stumbled slightly, and instinctively she reached to steady herself on the boulders. Unfortunately the boulders were to our left, and she used her broken left arm.

Walking a few steps ahead of her, I turned at Éowyn's tiny gasp of pain. I reached up and backwards to support her. It was an awkward movement that called forth a twinge of pain from my broken ribs.

For a moment we stood, with the Lady of Rohan leaning slightly upon me, and with what were probably near-identical looks of discomfort on our faces. Swiftly our looks of discomfort changed to sheepish smiles.

Lady Éowyn remarked, as she straightened to stand without support, "I fear that our brothers will not be best pleased with us, should they learn we have been mountain-climbing with your broken ribs and my broken arm."

"Then, Lady," I said, bowing to her, "let us form a pact for mutual defence, and see that they do not learn of it."

Éowyn grinned at me. "It is a bargain, My Lord," she said.

* * *

My thoughts that day led me to another climb. As sunset approached I climbed to the White Tower's roof, to contemplate the afternoon spent with Éowyn.

Unversed though I am in the arts of courtship, I did not think that vast experience would have helped me much in this case. Many a Man who claims great stores of experience with women, I have heard still express himself at a loss when attempting to decipher a woman's thoughts.

What, in truth, she thought of me, I could not tell. But I judged that the afternoon's sortie was like to have been a relative success.

The lady had appointed another meeting, at the same hour the day after next. That at least gave me cause to think that my forces were not entirely routed and in retreat.

My contemplations were cut short by a trumpet call. Carried up to me from the Great Gate of Minas Tirith there sounded the fanfare for Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.

Gladly I put all pondering aside, and made haste to descend from the Tower.

Faramir was waiting for me at the White Tower's side door. "You heard Imrahil's fanfare?" he asked, with a delighted grin that must have matched my own.

"Yes," said I, and together we hurried through the Courtyard of the Tree. As we passed the Fountain, I looked at it expecting Svip to be there as usual_. _To my surprise, the water creature was nowhere to be seen.

"Do you know where Svip is?" I asked my brother.

"Yes, I believe he is dining with Pippin and Master Cosimo."

I hoped that this might be a positive sign. I was ready to seize hold of any suggestion that Svip was taking an interest in the world around him.

Faramir and I hastened through the Citadel tunnel and out to the Sixth Level's stables. Hurrying to greet our uncle on his arrival in the City felt poignantly the same as so many of Imrahil's visits in the long-ago past. Almost could I believe that our father still lived, and that we were still two boys – not Men grown, and one of us the Steward.

As we reached the stable Uncle Imrahil was just leaping down from his horse.

"Uncle!" Faramir and I both hailed him. We met in another few strides. Imrahil held out his arms to us, embracing Faramir with one arm and me with the other.

"Boromir. Faramir." He was grinning at first, as widely as we were. But almost immediately his expression turned sombre, as he gazed searchingly at each of us.

"I am sorry about your father," he said. Then with scarcely a pause he went on, "And now I return to find that the two of you have switched places. You will have to tell me everything, of how all these things came about."

"Of course, Uncle," said Faramir. "Have you had your daymeal yet?"

"Not yet," Imrahil answered, with a return of his grin. "I hoped that if I arrived in time, my nephews would offer to feed me."

"We can probably scrape something together," I told him.

Faramir asked, "Where shall we go?" He explained rather apologetically, "I haven't moved into the Steward's chambers in the King's House yet. I fear I would be no very good company – nor would I manage to finish a scrap of work there – still expecting to see Father everywhere I turn."

"Are my usual quarters still available?" asked our uncle.

"Of course!" we both said. Faramir continued, "Our housing shortage is not _quite _so severe that we've had to give away your rooms."

"Good," said Imrahil, "let us go there."

We made our way to the chambers of the King's House reserved for the Prince of Dol Amroth, along the way requesting one of the servants of the House to have the daymeal brought to us and to send word to our townhouses that we would not be dining at home. Before long we were seated about the massive culumalda wood table that came to Minas Tirith as part of our mother's dowry. Carved Belfalas Swans form the four legs, supporting the table upon their outstretched wings.

As we ate, and drank a Dol Amroth white in honour of our guest, conversation lingered upon more cheerful pathways – absurd though it seems to describe Mordor as "cheerful." Imrahil elaborated upon his travelogue, regaling me with tales of Mordor's scenery (hellish), flora (nonexistent), and fauna (either downtrodden or monstrous, or both). He and Faramir discussed their shared observations of that black land. They speculated upon how the land might have appeared before Sauron cast his blight upon it, and debated in which locations farmlands, hamlets and cities might someday rise again.

At last, as the meal drew to its close, we could no longer delay. We turned to the tales of the changes that had come upon Gondor, while the Army of the West sojourned in the Accursed Lands.

We spoke first of my resignation and Faramir's investiture as Steward. Imrahil commented little, simply watching us with a sharp, studying gaze. Finally he delivered his verdict upon the topic.

"You both have long been able to discern what needs to be done," he told us, "and to make the most painful of decisions for the good of our country. I trust in your choices. If you believe this was the choice that must be made, then so it was."

"Thank you, Uncle," I said quietly.

"I am sorry I could not have you here with me for the Investiture," said Faramir. "We judged it better to move forward now than to leave Gondor another two weeks with no official government."

"Very right," agreed Imrahil. "There was no need to wait for yet one more well-wisher." He took a sudden, deep swig of his wine, and said, "But I am sorry I was not here for your father's funeral. Now tell me of him."

Grimly I began the tale, taking it back once more to our father's sacrifice of Faramir's company of Rangers, and to the discovery of the palantír in Father's Tower room.

Twice only did Faramir contribute to the story. He spoke of the survival of the Ranger Amyntor and his three comrades, and he briefly discussed with Imrahil the history of the palantíri.

During the account of our father, Uncle Imrahil made far more comments than he had when we spoke of my resignation. The story was punctuated time and again by his exclamations of anger and of shock. When I spoke, however, of Father's last battle, the Steward Denethor's brother-in-law fell silent once more.

The tale at last completed, of one accord the three of us drained our goblets. I set about refilling them.

"I will miss him," said our uncle, accepting the goblet I handed to him. "You would not think that of me – and _he _would not think it of me – for I will swear that he drove me mad, from almost the first day I knew him, to the last. But I will miss him. And I am sorry that I was not here for him. And that I was not here for the two of you."

Faramir drank deep, and answered. "You were there for us many a time, Uncle," he said. "Many a time when he was not. And you were there for him many a time when he did not deserve you to be."

"I do not know about that," Imrahil muttered philosophically, studying the interior of his wineglass. "The Valar know what each of us deserves. And I pray that at the last, each of us will receive it."

"Let us speak of the future," said Faramir. "We will need to consult with Aragorn, and seek his impressions and those of the other captains on how matters stand in Anorien. There is no Council session scheduled for tomorrow – may the Valar be praised for that! Let us send a message to him, Boromir, proposing that you and I – and you, of course, Uncle – visit him at his camp tomorrow morn and take counsel with him."

"You will not need to send a messenger," Imrahil said. "I am returning to camp tonight. I have a commission to fulfill: I promised Frodo that I would bring Merry and Pippin to the camp to see him."

"That is well," I said, smiling despite the painful lurch of my heart at the mention of Frodo's name.

We accompanied our uncle in his quest to locate the Hobbits. Pippin we found at Master Cosimo's quarters with Cosimo and Svip, the young esquire making pert and generally unhelpful comments while Cosimo taught Svip the finer points of chess. Svip greeted us absently but remained engrossed in the game as we departed, which I took as a hopeful sign indeed. I wondered if Cosimo had told the water creature that chess was a favoured pastime of my father, and if this partially explained Svip's intentness upon learning the game.

We collected Pippin's pony and Imrahil's horse at the Citadel stables, and went on to find Merry at the Rohirrim barracks.

The joyous excitement on the faces of both young Hobbits seemed to make up for many a dark sight in our recent days.

"Come with us, Boromir!" Pippin urged.

"Not tonight," I shook my head. "It was for you that he sent. I will visit him tomorrow, if he wishes it."

Pippin looked far from satisfied with my refusal. But he longed for this meeting too much to take time to argue the point.

Four or so hours later, Pippin was back, bounding up to my townhouse as blithely as though it had been the noon, and not drawing on toward midnight.

I was not yet abed, but was occupied rather in reading the latest reports from the Office of Rehousing. So it was that I found myself watching with a smile as Peregrin Took all but skipped about my office.

"They look wonderful, Boromir!" he exclaimed. "So wonderful. It sounds wrong to say that, but they do. They ... look changed, of course, but not in the ways I thought they might. They look different, and yet – not different at all. I suppose maybe that isn't so strange. I suppose all of us are changed and not changed, at the same time."

"Yes," I told him, "I think that we are."

"I didn't expect how Sam seems now, that's certain – even though really he looks exactly the same. You know who he reminds me of most? He makes me think of one of you Big People like Marshal Elfhelm or maybe Captain Cirion. Like a veteran who goes about his duty without ever saying much, but you know just from looking at him that he's seen more than could ever be put into words.

"And Frodo ..." Pippin continued. "Frodo, well, he reminds me of one of the Elves, maybe, the way he looks young and old at once. Or maybe a bit like Gandalf, with that light he's had about him sometimes since he came back from – since he came back from the bridge. Frodo's finger isn't nearly so horrible as I thought it would be," Pippin hastened on. "You don't tend to notice it unless you're really looking, and, well, we've all seen a lot worse than that."

My young friend looked troubled for another moment, then his enthusiasm carried him onward. "You know what the best of it is? Frodo looks happy. He looks happy like I haven't seen him look since before all of this started – maybe happier than I've ever seen him, at all. It makes everything worth it to see him look like that. Everything."

"I am glad of that, Pippin," I said. "I am glad of that, indeed." I marshalled my forces to ask the next question in seeming calm. "Will he wish to meet with me, do you think?"

"Of course he will!" Pippin exclaimed, looking shocked that I even felt I had to ask the question. "We talked about you a lot. He wants to see you right away. You ought to go out there right now, tonight."

"Tonight!" I echoed. "Peregrin Took, all sensible Hobbit folk are fast asleep by this time. Even if they aren't asleep now, they would be by the time I got there. The morning will be soon enough for me to visit them."

"No," Pippin insisted, "you should go now. Frodo wouldn't mind, even if you did have to wake him up."

"Whether Frodo wouldn't mind, or no," I observed, "Sam most definitely would. After the way in which we parted, I think I am the last person they will want to see dropping in on them in the middle of the night. I am certainly the last person Sam wants to see looming over his master, night or day."

I think if he could have, Pippin would have bodily abducted me and carried me to Aragorn's encampment by force, that I might not delay the meeting one instant longer.

Laughing I assured him, time and again, that I was _not _putting it off. There was nothing for him or for me to worry about. I was simply riding forth with Faramir in the morning because it was the appropriate thing to do. I vowed to him that I would seek out Frodo on the morrow; that I would seek no excuse to delay.

At length I succeeded in sending the young halfling away to his bed. Even then he did not turn from his campaign, but kept up the argument as I walked with him through the door of my townhouse, across the courtyard, and finally out through the gate.

"It's not too late, really," Pippin persisted. "You can still go see Frodo tonight, I know he won't mind. He said he'd be happy to see you, any time at all. And then you won't have to spend all night worrying about how it's going to go."

"I am not worrying," I told him. "I'm not worrying, Pippin, and 'any time' does _not_ mean in the middle of the night, no matter what scapegrace young roisterers like you may think! I will guarantee to you that Frodo needs his sleep a hell of a lot more than he needs a midnight visit from me. And believe it or not, captains of Gondor – and infuriating young Hobbits – need their sleep, too."

Pippin rolled his eyes and sighed enormously, but at last he accepted defeat.

And of course, I should have done precisely as Pippin said.

My dream in that night was nothing new to me. I had dreamt the same thing in one form or other, sleeping or waking, time and again in the month and more since I returned from my death.

But that night it seemed that the dream had no end. It kept me relentless company from the instant I closed my eyes, until I opened them with the dawn.

I dreamed I was in the woods of Amon Hen. It seemed that all that night I dreamed I was seeking for Frodo.

To and fro I raced like a madman. I half ran, half fell down the hillside, leaves and rocks and dirt avalanching at my sides. I scrambled up the slope, tripping over roots and logs, pulling myself upward again and staggering blindly on. Through the haze of tears and guilt I sought him, over and over shouting his name.

At some level I knew how this should end. I knew that I must force myself to rejoin our Fellowship; that I must face the accusations in Aragorn's gaze, and in Sam's. I must follow Pippin and Merry back into the woods, I must fight for them and fail them, I must bleed out my life amid the fallen leaves. And I wished, longed, prayed for all of that to be.

But that night, no such escape was mine. All the night I sought after Frodo, never finding him, never stopping. All the night I called his name, and I heard never any reply. I heard nothing save for the guilt that screamed from within my own mind.


	26. Chapter 26: The Council of Gondor

Author's Note:

I was so eager to post this chapter that I did so just now without adding an author's note. So here I am, on Take Two, trying to be a little more circumspect this time!

Large portions of this chapter were written anything from three to five years ago, so I have not actually managed to write a 60 page chapter in the two weeks since the previous chapter was posted!

According to the present plan, three more chapters follow this one. Unfortunately, I do not have major portions of those written yet, so we shall see what we shall see as to when they appear.

The poem recited by Lord Húrin of the Keys in the Council sequence is "The Old Issue," 1899, by Rudyard Kipling, slightly edited for our purposes here. (Only very slightly edited – it is rather spooky to me how closely the poem fits these circumstances. Was Kipling a seer who foresaw the events in Tolkien's writings?)

As always, thank you to everyone for reading this tale!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Departures and Returns, Part Three

The Council of Gondor

Relief at being awake propelled me through the morning. The horror of the night seemed far distant, and in my waking self I felt almost puzzled that my dream had brought me such torment.

_Valar's blood, _I thought. _I am not _that _worried about it, am I?_

But clearly I was, or I would not have dreamed of it all the night.

_It does not matter, _I told myself, as I had before, I know not how many times. _One way or the other, today it will be finished._

_You will give your apology to Frodo; he will answer it as seems best to him. And this entry in the chronicle will be over._

I rode forth that morn as one of a party that included Faramir, Éomer King with Elfhelm the Marshal, Húrin of the Keys, Lord Angbor of Lamedon, Svip, Pippin and Merry. Our companions waited at the Harlond while Svip and I took a brief morning swim. Then all of us followed my obligatory longer route along the River's bank.

Any dark thoughts I might yet have harboured were banished by the joyous chatter of the two Hobbits. Merry's own dark mood of late seemed defeated by last night's meeting with Frodo and Sam. As we rode along Anduin's shore, the cousins entertained us with a conversation fully as buoyant and whimsical as those with which I'd found myself bemused in the first days of the Fellowship.

The main import of their speech was the many sights around Minas Tirith that Pippin planned to show to Frodo and Samwise. Merry, for his part, began planning the tour of Rohan that he was going to give to them. His voice glowed as he described the beauty of that wild and windswept land. "Although," he admitted, "I can already hear Sam complaining that there's too much pastureland and not enough gardens."

Imrahil had told us last night that all of the army save for Aragorn's Men would be quartered in the Causeway Forts until they received further orders. The barracks there were more than sufficient to house the ludicrously small force that had marched upon the Black Gate: our regular troops along with the Rohirrim and the Men of Dol Amroth and the Southern fiefdoms. Only Aragorn and his immediate followers, including the thirty or so of his Northern Rangers who had joined him on the journey from Rohan, were encamped outside the Forts, their tents scattered along the low rise just beyond the inner gate.

Hastening through the gate on foot as we approached was Captain Eradan, for whom Faramir had sent to join us in this morning's conference. Currently commanding the garrison at Osgiliath, he was, I knew, desperately eager to return to his own post of Cair Andros. Svip and I slowed our gait as we neared the Captain, and walked the rest of the way alongside him, while Eradan reported to me on the Stonemasons' latest work on the Osgiliath Bridge.

Before a tent only slightly larger than its fellows flew the banner we had seen unfurled atop the mast of a Corsair ship in the battle of Minas Tirith: the standard of the kings of Gondor. Automatically I gritted my teeth at the sight of it. I asked myself how this display accorded with Aragorn's statement that he would take no action on his claim to the throne until he had consulted with us upon the matter.

I wondered, _Would he still display that standard if the Steward Denethor rode to take counsel with him today, not the Steward Faramir?_

_It makes no difference, _I told myself. _Our father is gone. Aragorn need no longer concern himself with tiptoeing around his old antagonist's hostility._

Next to Aragorn's tent was set up a larger awning, where awaited Aragorn of the Dúnedain with a selection of his followers, and our army's Captains.

As we dismounted, several of Aragorn's Rangers came forward to take charge of the horses. I thought I detected a bit of vindictive smugness on Svip's part – although perhaps I was simply reading my own reaction into his action – when he waited until one of the Rangers was close by his side in order to change to his usual shape. The Man jumped backward slightly and, it seemed, barely managed to restrain a yelp of surprise.

Then I was exchanging greetings and handshakes with our assembled Captains: Lords Duinhir of Morthond, Liudolf of Lossarnach, Golasgil of the Anfalas, Dervorin of Ringló Vale, and Captain Penda of Pinnath Gellin. Duinhir, I was glad to see, looked far less wan from grief than when I had seen him last, as though the expedition to Mordor had proved a much-needed restorative.

Having complimented these gentlemen on surviving the perils of the Accursed Lands, and thanked them for their words of condolence on the death of our father, I turned to see Faramir and Éomer in conversation with Aragorn, Imrahil, the Elven Lords Elladan and Elrohir, and Mithrandir.

I was certain that I was soon to have more conversation than I wished with the Grey Pilgrim and the Lord of the Dúnedain. I made my way instead to another group, where Pippin, Merry and Svip now stood with Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli of Erebor.

"Hail to you, friends," I said to the Elf and the Dwarf. "Has the Battle of the Black Gate answered at last the burning question of which of you is the deadlier warrior?"

"That depends on which of us you ask," Legolas answered, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Each of us is fully convinced that he has the higher score. But it has been strangely impossible to convince each other of the validity of our arithmetic."

"There is nothing but perfidy in the hearts of Elves," Gimli grumbled, with a look of affection for Legolas that robbed his words of any venom. "Either that or they have no skill in mathematics. Which is odd, considering that they must spend all their time at home in counting trees."

I chuckled at that, remembering that I'd once had a similar joking thought upon the probable pastimes of the Wood Elves.

"It is no surprise, then, if my mathematics are rusty," observed Legolas. "There were few enough trees to count in Mordor. Boromir," he continued then, all trace of humour leaving his expression, "I am sorry for the loss of your father. I am certain that he ... must not have been the easiest Man to live with. But that cannot make his loss any easier to bear."

Legolas' words, I thought, were likely informed by his own experience. From the little I had heard of King Thranduil of Mirkwood, I imagined he might be fully as challenging to live with as had been the Steward Denethor.

"Thank you, my friend," I told Legolas. "You are right, on both counts."

"Aye," Gimli added gruffly, "I am sorry for your loss, as well. I cannot imagine a heavier burden than when a son must see his father journey beyond the spheres of this world. Durin's beard! I shiver to think of the day when I must bear it."

"May that day be long in coming," I said.

Faramir walked over to me then, with Aragorn and Mithrandir. The Northman held out his hand to me, and as we shook hands, he said, "I grieve for the loss of Lord Denethor. He was a noble Man who fought valiantly for our country."

"Thank you," I said. "Yes, he was. It is to him we owe the fact that Gondor survives today."

Mithrandir added a trifle stiffly, "He was a Man of great wisdom and great deeds, who should be long remembered by his people."

"Yes," I answered. "He will be."

It was not surprising, I thought, that the Wizard's tribute to my father sounded a bit strained, considering their decades of animosity. I told myself I should be grateful that he had made the effort. Had their places been reversed, my father would not even have tried.

Aragorn continued, smiling but yet with troubled mein, "The two have you have placed the rest of us in a paradox. I rejoice to see Lord Faramir as Steward. Yet I sorrow that you felt the need to renounce your birthright. The post was yours – by birth, by training, by the love that you bear for our people and that they bear for you. I regret that you felt the need to make such a choice."

The thought occurred to me, of a sudden, that my choice was perhaps not all that different from the choice Aragorn had made when he left Gondor forty years before – although my father would have cast scorn on that notion had he heard it. Father would doubtless have told me that I had renounced a birthright unquestionably my own, whereas Aragorn had merely shied away from making the throw of the dice that would put his shaky claim of kingship to the test.

Faramir was saying to Aragorn, "I told him all of that, when I attempted to dissuade him from his resignation. Repeatedly. Naturally, he would not heed me. Stubbornness is apparently also part of his birthright."

I raised my eyebrows at him on that. "_Our_ birthright, brother," I corrected him.

Turning back to Aragorn, I said, "I thank you for your words to me. All of us serve Gondor as best we are able. It is for Faramir to serve as her Steward, and for me to serve as one of her Captains."

"Not merely as one of them," said Aragorn, "but as her Captain-General, who has given the greatest of service, at great cost to himself."

Faramir smiled at both of us. Then he turned to address the company at large. "Let us be seated, gentlemen," he said. "We have much to discuss."

A selection of folding camp chairs and stools had been assembled for our conference, augmented by some more solid chairs brought out from the Forts. I chose one of these latter, for some camp chairs are decidedly precarious for a Man of my weight. Svip sat on the ground at my feet, while Pippin chose a piece of ground by Faramir's chair and Merry sat by the feet of Éomer King.

When all of the Captains and allies were seated, Faramir said, "Our first need is to determine the situation in Anórien. I ask all of you who have returned with the Army of the West: what is your analysis of conditions there?"

Aragorn glanced about at his fellow Captains, who seemed inclined to let him answer. He said, "The Orcs that held Cair Andros are slain; I believe we may safely say that none of them escaped. We sent out scouts during our march from the Black Gate and throughout the time spent at Cair Andros and Cormallen. During the march through Ithilien the scouts several times observed isolated parties of Orcs headed eastward, all in smaller groups of a score or fewer. By the time we reached Anórien, no further such parties were seen. One group of about three score did attempt to reach Cair Andros from the North during our battle there. A detachment of our force ambushed and annihilated them before they came within sight of the fortress. It would, of course, be foolish to assume that every Orc who crossed into the Sun Land is fled or slain. But I believe we may say that those who remain are seeking bolt holes in the East with all speed."

Faramir inquired, "What territory did the scouts cover?"

"To the edge of Dagorlad and the borders of the Nindalf Marsh on the Eastern shore, and to the Fifth Mouth of Entwash on the West. The farthest west they ranged was about fifty miles inland."

Uncle Imrahil added, "The scouts were looking primarily for signs of current enemy activity, and did not have the time to conduct a thorough survey of the damage that has been inflicted. The general sense we have gained is that while there has been considerable destruction of houses and outbuildings, damage to the fields is less widespread. This does not hold true in all cases, of course. There do seem to have been times when the Orcs simply set the fields alight to either side of them as they marched. But in general their goals seem to have been swift plunder and speed of movement, rather than any systematic effort to render the fields of Anórien unusable."

Faramir nodded, deep in thought. "In light of these things," he said, casting his gaze most specifically on Húrin of the Keys, on Captain Eradan, and on me, "I believe we may reasonably commence work on the return of our people to Anórien. Húrin, you will at last be able to send a positive reply to our garrison commanders who've been seeking permission to send the evacuees home. We must impose some control over this process; we cannot allow our people to go trickling home in dribs and drabs. There is too much risk of their encountering lingering parties of the enemy.

"Then also," Faramir continued, "we face the question of attempting to salvage something of this planting season. Boromir, I think we must involve the Office of Rehousing in this. We will need to register our people as they reach Minas Tirith, and find for them temporary accommodations. When enough are assembled who are returning to the same region, we will send them with a detachment of soldiers to ensure their safe arrival and take stock of conditions there."

I nodded. "We will do so. We may run out of available housing, but there are tents aplenty in the storehouses. I will set Men to investigating our supply and determining what is usable. I may have to request that a few additional clerks be seconded from other departments, if there are any left who can be spared."

"We will find some for you," said Faramir. "Captain Eradan," he said now, "it makes sense for you to coordinate the troops. Cair Andros will be the most logical headquarters for this campaign."

"Aye, My Lord," replied Eradan. "We will likely need to do considerable reshuffling of the Men's assignments. We should put out the call for volunteers among all the troops, for any Man with experience in farming. They will be the most useful for this assignment, no matter where they usually are posted. If there are indeed few of the enemy left in Anórien, the troops will be needed to help get the fields planted before too late in the season."

"Yes," said Faramir, nodding decisively. "And if it should prove that any fields are too badly damaged to permit of their use this season, we must look into sending those farmers to undamaged regions where more manpower is needed."

Golasgil of the Anfalas spoke up, "Our folk will already be planting now. When the first crops are sown, we can send some of our people to Anórien – if indeed the enemy is gone from these shores – to assist in speeding the planting."

"Aye," agreed Uncle Imrahil, "as can we. And we can perhaps send some of our store of seeds as well, if it be found that the enemy has torched Anórien's seeds inside the Sun Land's barns."

The conversation continued, with the Captains and Lords of the Southern Outlands pledging manpower or stocks of seed. Éomer King added, "Our planting time is not yet. But I fear enough of our folk were slain in the enemy's raids, that we will need all the farmers we can muster in order to salvage this season for ourselves. I believe we can better aid Gondor by keeping the majority of the Éored here at your disposal, to guard these returning farmers and to see off any remaining pockets of Orcs that may be discovered."

Aragorn contributed, "We also are not yet planting; not until mid-May. Yet the distance that must be travelled would make it nigh impossible for any Dúnedan farmers to join in Anórien's efforts and still return in time for their own planting. I believe we can aid the Sun Land better by sending some of our supply of seeds, if that should be needed. Over the years our farm folk have developed swift maturing strains of many of our crops, to contend with our shorter growing season. Those could prove of use here, if the crops are sown later than usual. In the meantime," he added, "Our company of Rangers here will remain at Gondor's command to assist in these efforts."

As no one at that moment seemed to have more to add to our agricultural planning, Aragorn turned our conference to a different topic. He said, "It seems petty in the extreme to introduce politics into this discussion, when we are scheming how to grow food enough for Gondor in this coming year. Yet there is another matter on which I would consult with you, My Lord Steward. I intend to formally request the Council to consider my claim to the Kingship of Gondor. Before I make that request, I seek your counsel on how you believe this process should best proceed."

We heard a rustle of movement about that company, and a few sharp intakes of breath, as Men shifted on their seats in nervous excitement at being audience to an historic moment.

Faramir said calmly, "The request will come as no surprise to many of the Council. If you have your written request prepared, or can prepare it before we return to the City this morn, I will take it back with me and set the process in motion. It will need a session of the full Council to consider your claim. Fortunately a goodly number of the Council are even now at the White City or within the Rammas; there will be no need to leave as much time for their summoning as is usually the case. What say you, Húrin?" he asked, turning to the Keeper of the Keys. "Will five days be sufficient to bring the other Councillors here? I think only the commanders of the White Mountains' garrisons are yet absent – and your father, Lord Dervorin," he added to the young heir of Ringló Vale, "unless he wishes to appoint you his proxy upon the Council."

While young Dervorin was looking appalled at that prospect, Húrin of the Keys answered, "It is so, I believe, My Lord. Yes, five days should be sufficient."

Men less familiar with the Lord of the Keys might not have noted the disapproving grimness of his expression. He managed to restrain himself from actually casting a look of dislike in Aragorn's direction. Húrin added pointedly, "Certainly we should wait no longer than that, as this Council session will distract from our primary task of seeing the fields of Anórien planted."

"Then," said Faramir, ignoring Húrin's comment, "let a session of the full Council of Gondor be called, to sit five days from now." He turned back to Aragorn, asking, "Will you wish to address the Council in person, or will your case be presented by a representative?"

Aragorn replied, "I would welcome the chance to speak to the Council in person, that each Man should have the opportunity to ask of me what questions he wills. Yet I have come to the conclusion that it is better if I do not enter the City. The Council may feel more able to freely debate the issue, if the Man whom they discuss be not standing there before them. And I would not have it said that, in the time before this session sits, I was in any way attempting to influence the Council members. I have asked Prince Imrahil if he will present my statement to the Council, and he has consented. Here will I await the decision of Gondor. And if the decision be against my claim, then I will offer my sword and my labours to our efforts in Anórien. I have little experience in planting, but I will gladly join in guarding the farmers – and I can follow instructions, I think, as well as the next soldier-turned-farmhand."

"It is well," said Faramir. "Yet while I know you would not be thought to be influencing the Council, I can see no need for you and your people to remain encamped upon the plain. The Army of the West will be taking up their quarters in the White City, and this will leave almost every bunk in the Causeway Forts at your disposal. I think none would fear that the presence of your thirty Men in one of Gondor's barracks constitutes an attempt to impose your will upon the Council."

The gentle smile with which Faramir made that observation removed from it the scathing derision that it would have held, had our father made the same comment.

Aragorn answered Faramir's words in the sense in which they were spoken. "Yet we are thirty doughty Men," said he, smiling. "I thank you, Lord Steward," he went on, "but we would prefer to remain under canvas. We are used to living thus. And if we keep our tent pegs loose, it will be the easier to move on, if that should be the Council's decision."

"If that is your wish, then let it be so," Faramir replied. He continued then, in more solemn tones, "I feel that you should know this, Lord Aragorn: my brother and I have determined that neither of us will cast votes, when the time comes to decide upon your claim. Nor will we take any part in the debate preceding that vote. There has been many a Steward," he went on, "who was able to greatly influence the Men of his Council; whether through fear or through respect or through a mere love of ease, it can be all too simple for a Man to follow the course that his Steward advocates, whether or not it is the course that his own conscience would choose. This decision must be one that each Man of the Council makes for himself. Lord Boromir and I will attend the session and do what we can to see that it proceeds in something resembling order and peace. That is all the role that either of us will play."

"I see," said Aragorn, bowing his head to Faramir. "I understand your reasoning, My Lord Steward, and I thank you for telling me."

Aragorn made every effort to keep his expression neutral as he spoke. I wondered if I had imagined the look of wistful regret that I thought I had seen pass over his face.

Our conference seemed drawing to its end. When no other statements were immediately forthcoming, I stood and bowed to the company. "If our discussions are concluded for this time," I said, "I ask our Captains and allies to excuse me."

I turned to Aragorn. "I should like to greet Frodo and Samwise," I said to him, "if you do not think that ill-advised of me."

There was a sort of strangled snorting sound from Pippin. From what I could observe at the corner of my vision, I judged it likely that Pippin had started in on some complaint that I should stop fretting about it and just get _on_ with it, and Merry had kicked him to silence him.

Legolas and Gimli both looked troubled, but whether their concern was for Frodo, for me, or for both of us, I could not tell.

Aragorn smiled. "Not ill-advised at all," he said. "When I saw Frodo this morning, he made me promise that I would not let you leave the camp without seeing him."

"He has spoken of you with me, as well," Uncle Imrahil added. "Indeed, he asked me once whether I thought you would want to meet with him – and asked me to convince you to do so, if you did not already intend it." The prince's expression turned rueful. "What Master Samwise said, now, that does not bear repeating in your hearing."

I grinned at that. "I should be able to endure it, Uncle," I said. "I am confident that I have heard worse." I asked, "Do you know where Frodo and Sam are now?"

Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn all smiled, and Aragorn said, "Likely where Sam has been since he discovered the gardens in the Causeway Forts: helping the gardener prepare them for this year's planting."

I bowed to the assembled company once more, saying, "If you will excuse me then, gentlemen. You need not wait for me to return with you," I added. "You will reach the City the swifter by the direct route, at any rate."

"I'll be here waiting for you," said Svip.

When I set out, Captain Eradan was asking for more details of the battle at Cair Andros, and of the locations where parties of Orcs were last sighted by the scouts of the Army of the West.

As the discussion faded out of hearing behind me, I sighed.

I thought, _After what we have heard today, there will be no stopping Svip. _

He would start speaking again of wanting to return to his home, and this time there would be nothing I could say to delay him. No more could I use the excuse that his path home along the River might not yet be safe to travel.

Never would I wish for Orcs and their like to linger on our shores. But I was glumly sorry that the one delaying tactic I'd been able to think of was gone.

_It is the right thing to do for him to return home,_ I told myself. _Svip knows that, and so do you._

_It may be the right thing,_ I thought, _but by the gods,_ _I wish that it were not._

As I neared the gate to the Forts, my regret at the thought of Svip leaving was pushed back by older and darker regrets.

Exchanging greetings with the guards and walking on through the gate, I sought to banish the grim memories that crept again to my mind.

_This is not Amon Hen, _I told myself. _This is not Amon Hen, and the Ring is gone. And regret your actions though you do, there is nothing you can do to change them. _

_Apologise to him and own that you were in the wrong; that is all you can do._

I found the two Hobbits in the Forts' garden, as Aragorn had said. With them was Sergeant Sveneld, the old soldier who has tended the gardens of the Causeway Forts for as long as I can remember. The old Man seemed to have come through Gondor's recent battles unscathed, and he was turning over the soil at one end of the garden with all of his customary vigour.

The two whom I sought were across the Forts' main road from where Sveneld laboured, in the smaller section that is the herb garden. Samwise Gamgee, with a shovel almost taller than himself, was shovelling mulch and manure from a wheelbarrow and working it into the turned soil. A few feet away from him sat Frodo Baggins, plucking weeds from the ground in a lazy, relaxed fashion that suggested he might be about to fall asleep in the sun.

I fought with myself not to tense when I saw him; not to see again in my mind the sun-dappled glades of Amon Hen, and the horror and shock I had called forth then in Frodo's eyes.

_The past cannot be changed,_ I repeated the litany to myself. _The past cannot be changed. What matters is the present, and what you do now._

Frodo looked up and saw me before Samwise did. The ever-watchful Sam noticed his master's move, and immediately spun toward me.

I was near enough to them that I could see a smile light up Frodo's face. That sight alone began to ease the tension that had gripped my soul.

For Sam's part, his brows knit together and his mouth tightened disapprovingly in his old, familiar scowl. So familiar to me was that expression of his that I welcomed it near as much as I did Frodo's smile.

_The Fellowship of Nine are reunited, _I thought, in a sudden lightness of heart. _Reunited, in spite of what I did; in spite of the Dark Lord, in spite of all._

At the edge of the garden I halted. Frodo stood up, dusting off his hands on his breeches. He walked swiftly to me, to stand looking up at me with calm and untroubled gaze.

Samwise followed and stood at his master's side, hefting the shovel in his hands in a way that clearly said he'd be happy to try out the shovel's usefulness as a weapon.

"Master Frodo; Master Samwise," I greeted them. "I thank the Valar that you have won your way to safety. I thank the two of you for the safety you have won for all of us."

"Boromir," Frodo said simply, holding out his hand to me. "I'm glad to see you."

Sam sucked in a breath through his teeth. Hoping that I was moving slowly enough not to provoke Sam into attacking me, I knelt and carefully took Frodo's offered hand in mine.

"I am glad to see you, Frodo," I answered. "I am glad to see both of you."

"Are you?" snapped Sam. "That's very good of you, I'm sure, Master Boromir." From his tone, he would have liked to say something along the lines of, _That's very good of you, not to jump on my master and try to kill him._

Frodo let go of my hand. "Sam," he said, with a weary sigh.

"Sorry, Mister Frodo," was Sam's thoroughly unrepentant reply. "I'll not shake hands with you, Master Boromir," he went on. "My hands are dirty."

I could not refrain from smiling a little. "But not so dirty as mine are, I think you would like to say?" I asked. "It's all right, Master Samwise. I'll not attempt to force you to shake hands with me."

"Sam," Frodo sighed again. "Will you at least put down the shovel?"

Sam hesitated a moment, then grimly he obeyed, driving the shovel downward so it stood quivering in the ground beside him.

Sergeant Sveneld had paused in his work, and bowed to me. "My Lord Boromir."

"Good day to you, Sergeant," I said, nodding to him. "Please don't let me interrupt your work. However," I added, "I would like to borrow your assistants for a few minutes, if I may."

Sveneld bowed again and turned back to his garden. I asked Frodo and Sam, "Is it all right if we talk?"

"Of course," Frodo said, at the same time as Sam queried brusquely, "Can you talk while I work? There's a lot to be done here, to get this place in shape before planting."

Frodo gave me an apologetic smile. He gestured to the ground where he had been sitting before, and asked, "How are you at weeding, Boromir?"

"I've done a bit of it," I said. "Since nothing's planted yet, we needn't be concerned that I'll pluck the wrong plant."

Frodo and I sat down, while Sam yanked the shovel out of the ground again and turned back to his wheelbarrow. It occurred to me that Sam might find this a Valar-sent opportunity to "accidentally" heave some shovel-loads of manure onto me. But if that should prove the worst I had to fear from him, I supposed I should consider myself lucky.

I thought, _If he were not a Hobbit, I'd be seriously wondering if I should look out for his dagger in my back._

"You … are looking well, Frodo," I began, as I started excavating for the roots of the nearest weed. "I think you look healthier and happier, both, than I have ever seen you."

"Do I?" Frodo asked. "I suppose that's probably true. I was about to say the same thing of you."

Frodo did indeed look well, although with the appearance of one who was still on the road back from long and dreadful illness. There was a translucent pallor to his face, and his features were drawn and worn by the memories of pain. But he had none of the driven, haunted look that I remembered about him.

With some surprise, I wondered if that were the same look he remembered about me.

I wondered suddenly, too, what Frodo had looked like before the burden of the Ring came upon him. I wondered if he could ever look again, ever be again, as he was before the Ring. And it came to me with bleak certainty that no, no he could not.

The cruel red scar on his right hand, all that was left of his missing finger, was like to be the very least of his scars.

Frodo said quietly, pulling me back from my thoughts, "I'm sorry for the loss of your father, Boromir. Pippin told me a lot about him, yesterday. He meant a great deal to Pippin. A very great deal. I wish … I wish I could have met him."

I nodded, though I could not help thinking of how very unfortunate it would have been if they had met under certain circumstances. "I wish it too. In … in better days than those that have just passed."

"Yes," Frodo answered, with a sigh. He went on then, in a sudden new intensity, "But they _have _passed, Boromir. They have passed."

"Yes," I said to him. "Yes, they have passed. Frodo … those days may be gone, but I still need to apologise to you. For what I did to you; and what I tried to do."

"_No_," he said fiercely, "no, you don't need to apologise." His voice growing softer, he continued, "I know how it was for you, I think. I know, now … I know how it was."

I thought of the terse statement in Aragorn's letter, "_Instead of hurling the Ring to destruction, Frodo would have kept it for his own._"

I thought that perhaps Frodo did indeed know.

I told him, "I thought the Ring might mean salvation for my people. I was wrong. I am sorry. If there is aught I can do for you to atone for my actions, you have only to ask."

"You've already done it," Frodo said. "You fought to save Merry and Pippin. You _died_ for them. If you had anything to atone for, Boromir, you've atoned already, and more."

Into the silence that fell between us then there came the loud _thwacks_ of Samwise's shovel on the inside of the wheelbarrow, as he shovelled out piles of fertiliser with far greater vigour than necessary.

Frodo's gaze flickered toward Sam, then back to me. And to my surprise, both Frodo and I smiled at Sam's less-than-subtle statement.

Turning to face the small gardener, I said, "If Frodo will not take my apology, then perhaps you will. What say you, Master Samwise? Will you accept my apology for the suffering I caused your master?"

He scowled at me for some moments. Then he begrudged at last, "Well, it's a start, I suppose. But don't expect me to be crying all over you, or making flowery speeches."

"Believe me," I said, "I do not expect that."

"And you'll need to watch your step, too," Sam went on. "You'll need to show you can be trusted."

"That is fair enough, Master Samwise."

Pippin's description of Sam last night had been keenly accurate. He was a veteran now, indeed. The change in him was as plain to behold as ever I have seen it on the face of a soldier after his first campaign. Samwise Gamgee had gone through the crucible of battle, and he had emerged stronger and very much older at the battle's end.

Sam stood awkwardly for a moment with the look of one who knows not what to say. Then he cleared his throat and observed, "Those weeds won't pick themselves, you know."

"Very true," I said. Frodo's eyes sparkled with laughter, but he offered a contrite "Sorry, Sam," and turned his attention to pulling up one of the small, straggling weeds.

"Oh, I didn't mean you, Mister Frodo – " Sam began. He clamped his mouth shut rather than risk putting his foot further into it, and with an angrily embarrassed look he returned to his shovelling.

A few minutes later Frodo and I each had a small pile of uprooted weeds before us. Sam rested his shovel against the wheelbarrow, mopped his brow with the back of his hand, and said, "Look … all right, then, I'm sorry, Master Boromir; I know I shouldn't talk to a lord of the Big Folk the way I've been talking to you. I know you're a great lord hereabouts. It's not my place to be speaking to you so free. But … well, I can't help feeling I've earned the right, so to speak – the right to say what I think. And the way I see it, it don't do any good, when all's said and done, for great folk only to hear what's nice and pretty and polite. They can't be proper rulers of their people if they don't know what people are thinking of them, and – and that's what I think about it."

"I thank you, Sam," I told him. "You are right. True it is, beyond doubt, that you've earned the right to speak your mind. It is true also that there is no hope for good leadership when lords neither know nor care for the thoughts and wishes of their people. For myself, I hope someday to earn your friendship, and that of Frodo. I would never be worthy of that if I did not listen to your words, and take them to heart."

Sam's gaze was wary as he looked on me. He glanced away, staring for a moment down at the soil of the garden.

"Aye, well," he said. "Those are fair words, Master Boromir, and it's good of you to say them." Hastily Master Samwise went back to his gardening.

"You have my friendship, Boromir," Frodo said. "It's good to know again that I have yours."

In the lack of further adequate-seeming words, we both returned to our plucking of weeds. When another several minutes had passed, Frodo spoke again.

"Talking of people speaking their minds. What do you think will happen, Boromir, with Strider's – with Aragorn's claim to the throne?"

Now _there _was a question I did not want to answer. But, I told myself, this interview was going better than I'd had any right to expect. I should be thankful indeed if another discussion of Aragorn's prospective kingship were the worst I faced in this conversation.

I told them of the decisions reached in this morning's meeting; of Aragorn's resolve to make his formal claim, and of the coming meeting of the Council of Gondor.

Frodo asked quietly, when I had finished speaking, "And what do you think will _happen_? How will the Council decide?"

"I don't know," I said. "There will be some – there are some – who fully accept and support Aragorn's claim. Others are less convinced – not of Aragorn's worth as a Man, for few can now doubt his qualities, but of the rightness of his claim. Or indeed, they are unconvinced that Gondor has need of any king."

"But," put in Sam, who had put down his shovel again to listen, "but he _is _the king. Isn't he?"

I said, "In some ways of looking at it, he is. But it's not so simple. He is descended, indeed, from Elendil who was High King. But in the time of Elendil's sons, the kingdom was divided. The North Kingdom, Arnor, went to Isildur Son of Elendil, and the South Kingdom, Gondor, went to Anárion Son of Elendil, and his heirs. It is from Isildur and the Northern Line that Aragorn is descended. Some will tell you the Northern Line has a valid claim to Gondor's throne; others will tell you they do not. Over a thousand years ago, one of Aragorn's ancestors made the same claim to the throne as Aragorn himself will make. That claim was rejected."

Frodo nodded, frowning in contemplation. Sam was scowling in a very visible effort to make sense out of this history lesson.

I eschewed further discussion of Gondor's history. Instead I said, "Some of the Council believe that signs from beyond our world have told us Aragorn is the king. For them, the wonders he wrought during these battles for Middle Earth have proven his right to the kingship. Others acknowledge his exceptional qualities, but do not believe those qualities should play any role in this decision. The question is not whether Aragorn is a worthy Man. The question is whether Gondor needs a king at all – and if it does, whether Aragorn's claim has the validity to make him that king."

"I see," murmured Frodo.

"I _don't _see," Sam burst out stubbornly. "After everything he's done, how could he not be king?"

"Frodo has done great deeds, Sam," I pointed out. "So have you. Does that make either of you the king?"

"That's different," Sam protested.

"It is. But perhaps not so very different, for those who don't accept his line's right to the throne."

Searchingly, Frodo gazed at me. "Do you accept his line's right to the throne?" Frodo asked.

I avoided answering that. "My brother and I have agreed that neither of us will vote on the question. Nor will we speak for either side of the debate. We have no wish to unduly influence the decision. We will support what the Council's majority decides."

Samwise marched over and sat himself down between Frodo and me. "Why shouldn't Gondor have a king?" he questioned me.

"Why should it?" I countered. "Should the Shire? Would you accept it without question, if a Man arrived in the Shire and stated that he was your king? Or – "

What I thought was an inspired argument occurred to me.

"Or what about your garden? What if some other family of Hobbits had tended a garden that your family tends now, centuries ago? And then they disappeared, and were never heard from since. What if, after centuries of your family tending that garden, a Hobbit from that other family appeared, and said it was his garden, and he was the rightful one to care for it? What would you do then? Would you give him the garden because his ancestors had cared for it, centuries in the past?"

Sam stared at me for a moment. Then he said, "Aye … well. Well. That's a question, and no mistake. I suppose … I suppose it would depend on what kind of a gardener he was. Whether the garden would be better off with him or with me. It wouldn't be easy, but I'd have to do what's best for the garden, that's sure."

"Yes," I said. "That's what we're trying to do, too."

"Aye," Sam said again. Eyes narrowed as he studied me, he challenged, "And you don't want to give up your garden, do you?"

"No, Master Samwise," I answered. "I can't say that I do. But the comparison falls down, I'm afraid. It is not my garden. It is the land of the people of Gondor. And the decision is for Gondor's Council to make, not for me."

"He won't fail you, Boromir," Frodo said suddenly. "If the Council accept his kingship, Strider will not fail Gondor or you."

"I know that," I told him. "I know."

* * *

On my return to the White City, I set about the new, expanded work of the Office of Rehousing. Svip and young Bergil Son of Beregond served as my assistants and errand-runners on this day, but my usual assistant Pippin was about other duties.

I tried not to let my speculations dwell on the details, but I had little doubt that on this afternoon, Pippin served as chaperone to Faramir and the Lady Éowyn.

Much of that day was spent in investigating the tents in the army's warehouses, determining which of them were still serviceable. Fully a third were not, as they had been decades or centuries in storage – casualties of our population's decline, for many of these tents must have dated from the days when Gondor's armed forces numbered near as many as our entire population in recent times.

As evening drew in, Svip and I shared a quick daymeal at our headquarters in the Old Guesthouse with our comrades of the Office of Rehousing. Then Svip retired to the Fountain and I turned my steps to an unusual destination for me: the Steward's Library.

Of course I had a nagging fear that Faramir and Éowyn might be there, and would suspect me of spying on them. But I thought – and I certainly hoped – that they were not likely to have spent the _entire _afternoon together and be still here into the evening. And surely even my brother would not take a lady to the library for two outings in a row?

The Master of the Library gave a knowing nod when I stated my wish to see the _Records of the Council of Gondor _from the years 1944 and 1945. He told me that I was the second Man to make that request this day, Lord Húrin of the Keys having been here reading those same records and taking notes from them for much of the afternoon.

With a look of weary resignation the two Librarian's Assistants hauled from its cavernous shelf a truly monstrous tome. The thing was as tall as a Hobbit and certainly heavier and fatter than any of the Hobbits I know. The Librarian's Assistants were both fairly muscular Men – perhaps for the sake of such tasks as this – but they were heaving and puffing as they manoeuvred the massive volume onto one of the tables, where it landed with a thud not unlike that of a scaled-down version of the Dark Lord's wolf-headed battering ram.

Either no one was ever expected to read past centuries' records of the Council, or the scribes who compiled them simply wanted to inspire any readers with a fitting sense of the might and majesty of Gondor.

Ere I sat down to face this thing, I suggested to the Master of the Library that when I departed, he might wish to set his assistants to transcribing multiple copies of these particular records. If I did not miss my guess, a goodly number of our current Council members would be here in the next few days on the same research mission. I much doubted that the librarians wanted every Man of the Council poring over this ancient, and enormous, document.

Like Húrin of the Keys before me, I took notes, although since I would not be voting on the question of Aragorn's kingship, I wasn't certain why I was bothering. But vote or no vote, I felt that I wanted to know and understand as much as I could about the previous time a ruler of the North had attempted to claim the Throne of Gondor.

The chief conclusion I reached from the hours I spent plodding through those records was that I was very glad indeed I would not be voting on this issue. If I were to cast a vote – I did not know what I would do.

If my father were still alive, my course would be an obvious one. I would do everything I could to keep my father and Aragorn apart, and to induce Aragorn to return to his Northlands, leaving his claim to the kingship stillborn.

But our father was gone. With him had gone any certainty I might ever have felt upon the question before us.

Had Gondor any need of a king? Was there any benefit to her in having one; was there any detriment to her in _not_ having one? If she had any need for a king, should that king be Aragorn?

I did not know.

* * *

By the next morning, the first of the people of the Sun Land – those who had been evacuated no farther away than Tumladen or Lossarnach – were arriving in the City. We heard the predictable grumbling as they learned that still they were not free to return to their homes. But it was a grumbling mixed with relief.

Chafe at the delay though they might, when faced with unknown destruction to their land and homes and the prospect of a race to salvage this year's crops, a little governmental assistance likely did not seem amiss.

Then, too, I think that some of them secretly hoped they would be delayed long enough to see the result of this upcoming session of the Council – reports and rumours of which had already sped through the White City.

Race to save the crops or no, who would not regret that they had left Minas Tirith, perhaps, just days before we welcomed to the City our first king in nigh to one thousand years?

After a morning passed in a flurry of meetings and a few hours of setting up tents near the Crossroads of the White Tree Inn, Svip and I met again with Merry and Lady Éowyn, for another afternoon's ride.

I thought that if the Lady vouchsafed me many more of such meetings, I was like to run out of ideas for interesting places to which we could ride. But then, I reminded myself, sightseeing was at most only a secondary purpose for these expeditions.

On this afternoon we rode to Osgiliath, and spent some hours exploring the ruins on the city's Eastern shore.

The Lady of Rohan showed as much enthusiasm in investigating the shattered city, as she had two days before in counting the repaired rooftops of Minas Tirith. I think only her broken arm stopped her from beginning her own impromptu excavation when we discovered a building that she felt certain had been one of East Osgiliath's larger stables.

"I can see why you long to rebuild this city, My Lord," Lady Éowyn remarked, when we stood on one of the guard towers of our new eastern defences and gazed over the rubble that once had been the Citadel of the Host of the Stars. "There are ghosts here aplenty, but not ghosts who inspire any fear. It is as though all who once lived here are awaiting the day when life shall be restored to these streets and these halls – as though bringing back the city they loved can restore their joy and their hope and all that they have lost."

"We have all of us lost too much, Lady," I agreed. "I pray that if this city can rise again, it will do so as a sign to our people that we have victories now, as well – as a symbol of the hope that has come back to us as the Fire of Doom vanished from Mordor's skies."

Again, that day, when we parted at the Rohirrim's barracks in Minas Tirith, the Lady appointed another meeting for the afternoon after next.

That evening I made my swiftly-becoming-traditional sunset climb to the top of the White Tower. When I descended, I found awaiting me our entire complement of halflings. The four Hobbits of the Shire were sitting on the edge of the Fountain of the White Tree, while Svip, in the Fountain, watched them with all the appearance of solemn interest.

Pippin, so he told me, had spent the afternoon in conducting Frodo and Sam on their tour of Minas Tirith. When Lady Éowyn and Merry returned to barracks, Pippin sought and received the Lady's permission for Merry to join them on the rest of their tour. They had sought out Svip in the Fountain, as well, and the five of them ate their daymeal with Beregond's company of the Citadel Guard – the other three Hobbits being grandly introduced by Pippin as the guests of the Prince of the Halflings.

Now Pippin had one more location that he wished to include in the tour – a location for which he needed my permission, and in which he hoped to have my company.

He wanted to take his friends to see the tomb of the Lord Steward Denethor.

"Talking of who's changed the most in all of this," Samwise said dourly, clearly taking up the thread of an earlier conversation, "I'll say that would have to be you, Mister Pippin. Going on purpose to walk into a tomb just as it's getting dark, I never heard the like! You'd think we'd all have had enough of this sort of thing by now. It's one thing to do that kind of tomfoolery when the fate of everything depends on it. There's no call for us to go and do it now when we've got a choice!"

"The sun's only just setting now," argued Pippin, "it won't be dark for hours, yet."

I thought that he was stretching that point a trifle, but I did not comment.

"There's nothing to be afraid of there," Pippin went on. "Merry and Svip and Boromir and I have spent a whole night in the tomb, and we were none the worse for it except for being tired. If there were any wights in there, we'd have seen them already."

Merry put in quietly, "I would like to take you to see Théoden King, Frodo. So you can see what he looked like; so you can picture him when I'm talking about him." The Esquire to the King of Rohan stared at his feet and whispered, "I just wish you could have met him."

"So do I," Frodo said simply, taking his friend's hand.

Sam set his jaw in grim resignation, but he made no further complaint.

So it was that the five halflings and I made our way that evening to the Porter's cottage and the Silent Street. Although, as Pippin said, it was not yet dark, I doubted that any of the Hobbits particularly wished to be in the Hallows without light as darkness fell. I had sent for torches before we set out. Now, with our torches gleaming in our hands as we walked along Rath Dínen, we looked all too much like a miniature funeral procession. Pippin and Merry strove to dispel this impression with their quiet, fondly spoken reminiscences of my father and of Théoden.

No guard either of Gondor or of Rohan stood at the House of the Stewards now, as the time of mourning and funeral was over. I was grateful, as I pushed on the tall, heavy door and it swung silently open, that the Tenders of the Tombs keep all hinges here meticulously oiled. Master Samwise would thank Pippin not at all, I thought, for bringing him in the shadows of evening to a tomb that came complete with an ominously creaking door.

We stopped first at the bier of Théoden King, where his body would lie until his nephew and successor could escort it home for burial in their own land. Quietly, Merry spoke of him.

"I told him he would be as a father to me, when he made me his esquire," Merry recalled. "And he was. All of you had gone. The two of you," he said to Frodo and Sam, "to Mordor. Boromir, we still thought you dead. Gandalf carried Pippin away with him. Strider, Legolas and Gimli all rode off on these Paths of the Dead. It's a hell of a thing," he murmured, with a rueful shake of his head, "to go from being in a Fellowship of Nine, to being just one.

"But Théoden – he made me feel that maybe Rohan could be my home. Or one of my homes, anyway. He made me feel that – that I wasn't just a Hobbit any more. That I could be a Rider of Rohan, too."

"There's nothing wrong with being just a Hobbit, Merry," Frodo told him, with a gentle smile.

Pippin leading us, we walked on, to the bier of the Lord Denethor. And Pippin spoke of the black day of the Siege of Minas Tirith, when the Steward and Húrin of the Keys and Pippin had toured the Walls together and had joined in the fire-fighting in the First Circle.

"You could see why Men would be afraid of him," Pippin remarked, "but you could see why they loved him, too. It made me not afraid, being there with him. Or, almost not afraid. It was when the Black Riders were flying over us, and the whole City was heavy with the fear of them, but Lord Denethor – you could tell he wouldn't give in to being afraid. Not ever. Just like you, Boromir."

Pippin continued, primarily to Frodo, "You should have seen how all the Men took heart when he visited their posts; how they all seemed to take courage and hope just from seeing him. And when we stopped to work with the fire-fighters, and he was working as hard as anyone else, or harder, and taking more risks than anyone, and all of us got covered in soot – you'd have thought it would have looked funny, seeing the Lord Steward all sooty as a chimney sweep. But it didn't, not really. I don't suppose Lord Denethor ever looked funny.

"He told me stories, that day," Pippin went on. "Like he did again later, out in the forest, the night when he died." The Steward's esquire gave a shaky smile. "I guess he could see how much better it made me feel to hear about other people's hair-raising adventures, instead of just having to think about my own. He told me stories about when he was a young Man, on his first campaigns. About his years as the Steward's Heir, and about his father. And he told me about the first time he went into battle, when he was fourteen, and how afraid he had been that day. I told him I couldn't imagine he'd ever been afraid.

"He smiled at me, and he said, 'We are all of us afraid, Master Peregrin.' But I wasn't afraid – much – not with him there. Not with him."

As I listened to Pippin talk of my father, the thought came to me with a pang of melancholy that he had almost certainly told things to Pippin which he had never told to me.

Many a time my father had recounted to me episodes from his youth and his early campaigns. But the tales were told as salutary lessons, in which the young Denethor had acted in some appropriate and responsible manner in direct contrast to whatever it was that I had just done.

He had spoken to me of his first battle, I remembered – in order to show me how a mature and reliable young officer _ought_ to behave, after I'd nearly got myself killed in my own first campaign, leading a charge at Cair Andros at the age of fifteen.

I thought, _I am glad he spoke as he did to Pippin. I wish he had thought it appropriate to speak so to me._

As Pippin continued to speak, Svip touched my hand and whispered to me, "Can we look at something else? You told me, at the end of the funeral, that it's over. That there's nothing more we can do for him."

"That's true," I answered, stepping farther away from the others so as not to interrupt Pippin's reminiscences. "Do you want to leave? I can walk you back to the Fountain, then come back here to meet the others."

"No," he said, "I'll stay. But I just – I just don't want to keep looking at him."

So I walked with Svip along the silent rows of my ancestors, and quietly I began telling him stories of them.

We had reached my namesake the Steward Boromir, and I was telling Svip of that other Boromir's battles for Osgiliath. Then Pippin, in a startled voice, called out my name.

I looked over at them, and with a sinking heart I realized where they were. The four Hobbits were standing by the room's east wall, beside the three enclosed crypts nearest to my father's bier – beside the carven plaque which bears the names of my wife and our son.

I hastened to join the Hobbits, with Svip at my heels. The four of them stared at me, all looking stricken with surprise. Pippin exclaimed, "We never knew you'd been married, Boromir!"

"Yes," I said quietly. "She was the elder daughter of Théoden King. She died five years ago, of the marsh fever. It was very bad in the City that summer; many of our people died from it."

None of the Hobbits mentioned my son, and I thought it likely that only one of them had read of his existence. I suspected that Frodo's reading knowledge of Sindarin was far better than that of his comrades; likely it was he who had translated the plaque's inscription for them in the first place.

That he knew of Findemir now, I was almost certain, from the look of sorrow and sympathy that he cast at me. But to my gratitude, the Ringbearer did not speak of him.

"But," Pippin protested, "why have we never heard of her? She wasn't even mentioned in the chronicle entries in your father's funeral; I'm certain she wasn't."

I sighed and sought for a way to answer this which did not sound as though I were chiding my friends for their breach in etiquette.

Slowly I began, "In our custom, it is held that women and children occupy ... a private sphere in the lives of their families. The men's lives are part of the public world; the lives of their wives and their children are part of the family, alone. It has been millennia, I think, since this distinction has kept the women immured in any kind of seclusion. But the tradition holds stronger in our deaths than in our lives. It is felt to be an insult for any but a close family member to speak of a lady once she has passed beyond the boundaries of this world. If you'll remember," I hurried on, attempting to gloss over my use of the word _insult_, "our mother's name was never mentioned in the chronicle readings during the funeral. She was mentioned only once at all, when she and our father wed; and that was only because the wife and mother of Stewards plays a crucial role in the history of our country."

There were murmurs of apology from the Hobbits. Pippin, looking grief-stricken, said, "I'm sorry, Boromir; I'm sorry we asked you. We never would have asked if we'd known."

"It is all right," I assured them. I crouched down by them and put my hand on Pippin's shoulder. "It is all right, Pippin. You were not to know. And after all," I added, "after everything that we have gone through together, I should think we are all very near to being family. Even if, Master Samwise," I added, glancing at the intrepid gardener, "just as in a family, certain individuals might be just as glad never to see certain other family members again."

After a pause, Sam gave a little snort and a shrug. There might have been something like forgiveness for me in his gaze, although I did not think that I would bet very much upon it.

"You're right on that one, I suppose, Master Boromir," Sam said grudgingly. "We are very near to being family, right enough."

* * *

The meeting of the full Council of Gondor convened at the Third Hour, on the Fourteenth of April, 3019.

It was, I think, the first Council session I had attended from which not a single representative was absent.

Familiar faces were missing aplenty. My father, most inescapably, along with Théoden King, Forlong the Fat, and Hirluin the Fair of Pennath Gellin. Yet the place of each was filled by his successor or the appointed representative of his people. All of our Captains and garrison commanders were assembled, every guildleader, and the lords of each of the Outlands. All of Gondor was represented that day in the sunlit Tower Hall.

Three guests also were present for our deliberations: the Lord Mithrandir and the Elven brothers Elladan and Elrohir, the Sons of Elrond.

I thought this might be the first occasion on which Elves or a Wizard had been present in a meeting of Gondor's Council. Certainly it was the first such occasion in anything resembling recent times.

If matters developed today as I more than half expected they would, I thought it would not be the last appearance of Elves and Wizards at the Council of Gondor.

Others who would have been welcome had chosen to decline the dubious honour of sitting through the debate to come. Pippin and Merry both had requested leave to wait out the day at Aragorn's camp. The rest of the Fellowship also had chosen to endure this wait at the side of their friend who, by the close of the morn, might – or might not – be king.

In the midst of that mighty assembly, I felt almost as though I was not standing there among them – as though I were as absent from that place as were Aragorn and our friends. Or as absent as was my father.

_If you feel distanced from these proceedings, _I told myself, _it is your own choices that have made you so. _

_You could have chosen to remain Steward, and you could be even now taking your place in the Steward's Chair. _

_Or you might have chosen not to excuse yourself from involvement in this debate. _

I told myself, _It is far too late to regret either of those choices now._

I thought again of Faramir's arguments when we had debated the question of who should be the Steward. I thought of his theory that I had renounced the Stewardship simply to avoid being the Man most responsible for the decision ahead of us – and perhaps the Man who would place the Crown of Gondor on Aragorn's head.

_It is not true, _I told myself. _By all the gods, I pray that it is not._

For if it was, then I had made my choice based on simple cowardice, not upon my desire to do what is best for our country.

I thought, too, of Faramir's other theory, that I had sought to remove myself from the Stewardship and this debate out of loyalty to our father.

My answer to that remained the same: that if I sought to fulfill the Lord Denethor's will in this, I would at all costs have retained the Stewardship, and I would stand now as the implacable foe of Aragorn's claim.

But I thought that perhaps, in one way, my allegiance to our father had guided my pathway here.

Perhaps I sought for one final time to be his follower and companion, removing myself from the great struggle ahead of us as thoroughly as death had removed him.

As I took my seat in the circle with the others, I had to force myself to sit upright as was properly expected of me. It was a very strong temptation to slump far down in my chair, as if merely slouching could somehow spare me from listening to the debate ahead.

I thought that I envied Aragorn, who could wait out this meeting in the open air with Legolas, Gimli and the Hobbits at his side. But I did not envy him what must be going through his mind as he awaited the meeting's result.

The thought struck me that Aragorn was rather in the position of a father-to-be, pacing uselessly in the hallway awaiting the news that, whatever it be, will change his life forever.

_Or,_ my thoughts added ruefully, _he is in the position of a man who waits to learn whether the lady he courts will consent to be his wife._

_Well, _I thought, _I should rather be where I am than where he is. There are other young ladies in the world. There are not that many opportunities to gain a crown._

The low murmur of conversation died as Faramir, seated in the Steward's Chair before the stairs and the throne, gazed around the circle of Councillors.

_This is it, then, _I thought. _The first full Council session of Faramir's reign._

_And perhaps it will be the _only_ session of his reign as Ruling Steward. _

Faramir began in clear and steady tones, thanking the Council for their attendance. He said, "I believe that all here know what brings us to this session of the Council. We have only one matter of business before us for our consideration. If there are no other urgent matters that Councillors wish to bring forward at this time, I move that we proceed to the claim of Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn."

Some of the Council stirred uncomfortably in their chairs, but no Councillor spoke.

"Very well," said Faramir. "Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth has consented to present Lord Aragorn's claim."

Our uncle stood and unfurled the scroll that he had been holding. With his solemn, sharp gaze he looked once about the circle, at each member of the Council of Gondor. Then he began, utter silence reigning around him as Imrahil read forth Aragorn's words.

Aragorn spoke first of his parentage and his lineage, tracing his line back through the Chieftains of the Dúnedain, the Kings of the North-Kingdom of Arthedain, and before them the Kings of Arnor, back to Elendil himself. He spoke of the heirlooms of his House, delivered to him in his twentieth year by his foster father Lord Elrond Half-Elven of Imladris, in whose keeping they had been.

At this point in his recital Imrahil turned and bowed to the Sons of Elrond. "Lord Elladan?" Imrahil said respectfully, and our uncle returned to his seat.

One of the Elf Lords arose – Elladan, obviously, although only the dark blue of his elegant attire enabled me to tell him apart from his claret-clad brother. _As soon as they next change clothes, _I thought, _I'll be as little able to tell the difference between them as ever. _At least after the Battle of the Pelennor, one of them had sported a cut upon his cheek. But with the swift-healing nature of the Elves the wound had now vanished without even leaving a scar, denying us poor mortals the assistance of that identifying mark.

Lord Elladan turned to the attendant who stood behind his chair, and put aside the golden cloth that had draped the cushion the Elf was carrying. Across the cushion lay Aragon's sword, innocent of its sheath, the blade gleaming like moonlight upon water.

Reverently Elladan took up this sword out of legend. He stepped into the circle and held it up in both gloved hands before the Council.

"The Sword of Elendil, Narsil, once the Sword that was Broken, now re-forged, and called Andúril," Elladan declaimed. He crossed to Faramir, bowed his head and held out the sword before the Steward's gaze.

In silence my brother studied the fabled weapon, looking intently at the runes along its blade and the barely visible lines of its re-forging. From the fascination in his gaze, I almost expected him to whip forth one of the magnifying lenses they keep in the Steward's Library, that he could better read the ages-old runes.

He did nothing of the sort, of course. Instead he reluctantly dragged his gaze away and nodded to Lord Elladan. But I thought it a very good bet that Faramir would ask Aragorn for a second viewing of that sword as soon as he could possibly manage to, and would likely soon be engaged in writing a monograph on the weapon's inscription.

Elladan took a step to Faramir's right, and stopped again that I might examine the sword.

The smiths of the Elves, unsurprisingly, had done excellent work when they re-forged the blade. Faintly the marks of the sword's breaking could yet be seen. But they seemed more a part of the blade's elaborate patterning, than any imperfection.

I nodded to the Elf Lord in my turn, and he continued his progression around the circle, stopping once more before Húrin of the Keys. Húrin barely vouchsafed the sword a look, before signifying to Elladan that he had seen enough.

Svip, huddled on the floor next to my chair, had stayed silent until now. But when the Sword Re-Forged had passed before him from me to Húrin, Svip tugged on my sleeve and whispered, "What does it mean? That sword doesn't make him king, does it?"

"No," I whispered back. "It's for this Council to make him king, or not to do so. The sword only adds credence to his claim of descent through the line of Isildur."

Svip protested, still whispering, "But he was given the sword by Elrond. That doesn't mean he's really descended from Isildur, it just means Lord Elrond gave him the sword!"

Hearing that, Lord Húrin looked over and grinned at Svip. Any further conversation on those lines was silenced by a short, warning look from Faramir.

The relic made its way about the circle, until Elladan at last stood again before Faramir.

My brother stood then, and with a short speech he thanked the Elven Lord and Lord Aragorn for permitting us to view the Sword of Elendil. The Elf bowed once more, turned and crossed back out of the circle, returning Andúril to its place under the silent attendant's care. Elladan then took his seat between his brother and Mithrandir.

Imrahil went on. Aragorn's statement turned now to a brief précis of his life, with particular focus on his years as Captain Thorongil, in the service of my grandfather Steward Ecthelion II.

Many in the Council had known of this already. Many more had not, to judge by the startled looks and the upsurge of whispers that followed this news.

Aragorn discreetly steered clear of mentioning why he had left Gondor those forty years before. But from the fragments of whispered discussion that reached me, it did not take long for many to reach the conclusion that he had departed in order to avoid conflict with the then-Steward's Heir, Lord Denethor.

Raising his voice slightly but otherwise ignoring the Councillors' whispered discussions, Imrahil completed Aragorn's summary of his life and adventures. The statement closed, in Imrahil's strong, ringing tones:

"I, Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, Sixteenth Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, do formally state my claim as the Heir of the Line of Isildur, rightful King of Gondor and Arnor. I respectfully submit my case to the Council of Gondor. You have my word that I will abide by the Council's decision. I understand and respect the weighty responsibilities that accompany Gondor's crown. I am ready to accept those responsibilities, and I will devote my life to proving worthy of that trust. Whatever may be the Council's decision, I will be as I have been, while breath remains in me, the faithful servant of Gondor."

I saw a momentary grimace cross Húrin's face at this closing, but the rest of the Council looked appropriately solemn and respectful. Many of them, by their expressions, were very deep in thought. I glanced down at Svip, and saw on his face a scowl far blacker than that of Húrin of the Keys.

Uncle Imrahil re-furled the scroll. He presented it to Razvan the Chief Scribe of the Council, who sat at his desk within the circle. Imrahil returned to his seat at the left of Éomer King.

Faramir spoke. "I thank you, My Lord Prince," he said to our uncle, who nodded. Then Faramir turned his gaze to the Council at large.

"All of us are aware," he said, "that this is not the first time a ruler of the Line of Isildur has made this claim. I know that many have already read these documents in preparation for this meeting. But, that this discussion may be complete, we will hear now the records of this Council, from the session of November, in the year of the Third Age 1944."

Razvan the Chief Scribe stood up from his desk. He put aside the record book into which he'd been writing and pulled toward a modest sheaf of parchment, the transcription of the records in question.

I had to restrain a grin at that point, as I pictured Razvan instead having to wrestle with the monster of a record book that I'd read in the Steward's Library.

Faramir had told me the night before that the Master of the Library had indeed set several of his assistants to copying those entries from out of the massive tome. The Librarian reported to Faramir that over half of the members of our Council had visited in these past five days to study those records.

We heard now, in Razvan's reedy tones, the words inscribed by his distant predecessor from the days of the last kings.

He read out the transcription of the letter sent by Arvedui of the North-Kingdom upon the death of Ondoher of Gondor and his sons, in which Arvedui claimed the crown as the direct descendant of Isildur, and as the husband of Fíriel, only surviving child of Ondoher.

Then he read out the transcription of the Council session that followed.

I confess that it sent something of a shiver down my spine to hear those words read here, doubtless in the very room where they were spoken one thousand and seventy five years ago. Almost, it seemed, I could see the ghosts of the Men who had spoken those words, of Pelendur the Steward and the princes, lords, captains and guildleaders who once occupied the chairs in which we sat now, and whose debates had decided the future of our country even as ours would decide it today.

Razvan the Scribe, I think, was at best a lukewarm supporter of the move to acclaim Aragorn king. There was an unmistakeable note of satisfaction in his voice as he read the decision of that Council in 1944, from their letter sent in reply to Arvedui's claim:

"'The crown and royalty of Gondor belongs solely to the heirs of Meneldil, son of Anárion, to whom Isildur relinquished this realm. In Gondor this heritage is reckoned through the sons only; and we have not heard that the law is otherwise in Arnor.'"

Razvan turned then to a later entry, the records of the Council session of January 1945. He read the second letter from Arvedui, stating the Northern King's argument that the kingdom was never divided between Isildur and Anárion. When Isildur succeeded his father Elendil as High King, Arvedui wrote, he had committed the rule of the southlands to the son of his brother Anárion. "'He did not relinquish his royalty in Gondor,'" read Razvan, "'nor did he intend that the realm of Elendil should be divided for ever.'"

Beside me, Húrin of the Keys hissed under his breath, "That may not have been what he _intended_, but it's what happened."

The Council in 1945 had shared Lord Húrin's opinion on the subject. The discussion in the Council's record books closed with this bald statement: '"The Council is of the opinion that His Majesty King Arvedui of Arthedain's arguments were answered fully in their previous letter to him, and that no further reply to the King of Arthedain is required.'"

The Chief Scribe turned and bowed to Faramir. With Faramir's thanks he took his seat and returned to his note-taking.

Faramir addressed the Council. "You have heard the statement of Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn, and the previous discussions and decision of this Council. This discussion is now open. What answer shall the Council of Gondor return to the Son of Arathorn?"

I knew for a fact that the Men seated in that circle held no lack of opinions. But none, apparently, wished to be first to step out on a limb and state them.

At last Master Moluag the Chief Healer asked, "Does My Lord Steward have aught of direction to give us?"

Faramir frowned. He said, "I do not think it appropriate that I state an opinion on this question. I would not have it said in years to come that this was a decision in which only the words of the Steward held sway. It must be clear to all who read of our doings that this choice was made by the Council as a whole, not by one Man."

My brother paused. I thought of how strange this must be for him: to be speaking in Council as the Steward, as the Man whose words are most likely to guide the decisions of those about him.

_How strange it must be for him to realise he need not trouble himself over what our father will think of his words. To know that he need not fear what our father will say._

_It must be even stranger for him, _I thought, _than it is for me._

"This direction only will I give," Faramir continued. "We have heard the deliberations and conclusion of our predecessors on this Council. It is right that we include their conclusion in our considerations now. But let none of us think it our duty to reach the same conclusion as they did.

"The mere existence of a precedent does not compel this Council to reach the same decision. There have been many instances in which the Council of Gondor has not followed precedent. The Council whose deliberations we have just heard decided against the validity of the female line in decreeing succession, yet two hundred years later the female line was adjudged valid in the succession of the Princes of Belfalas. Master Razvan, I am certain, could find for us many examples over the centuries of this Council ruling against precedent. All of us must make our decisions based on the facts as we see them now. We must rule on what we believe to be right for Gondor today, not on what was judged right for Gondor one thousand and seventy-five years ago."

"We thank you for your guidance, Lord Steward," the Chief Healer murmured. He looked, I thought, not all that thankful for the guidance.

"Lord Boromir?" Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers asked then. "Have you any guidance for this Council?"

"I concur with the Lord my brother," I said. "It is better if neither of us takes a role in this discussion. I will stand by the decision of the Council of Gondor."

As I spoke the words the niggling questions again sounded in my mind. I asked myself if indeed I kept silent for the sake of not over-influencing the Council.

Was it not, instead, that I feared to make the choice; that I wished above all for this decision to be made by someone else?

Master Rađobard bowed his head to me in acceptance of my words. Captain Cirion of the Anórien Rangers frowningly asked, "But, Lord Boromir, it is said that you travelled in company with Lord Aragorn, from the Elf-Lands of Rivendell to the Rauros Falls. Can you not then give us your opinion of him as a Man, if not of his claim as king?"

I held back a sigh, and once again I wished I could somehow have escaped fromattending this meeting.

"Very well," I answered. "This I will tell you: I saw nothing of Aragorn during our voyage together, nor have I seen anything afterward, that makes me believe Gondor would suffer from taking him as her king. He is a brave Man and an honourable one. If he becomes king he will accept his duties in all seriousness of heart, and the welfare of Gondor will be his greatest care. That is all I intend to say."

Uncle Imrahil said, "If the Lords my nephews will offer no further opinion, perhaps this Council will grant me leave to speak?"

He was answered by immediate nods and expressions of assent.

Imrahil began, "When Lord Aragorn asked me if I would read his statement to the Council, I was glad and proud to consent. I, for one, can say without hesitation that I support acclaiming Aragorn our king."

Exclamations both of surprise and of agreement sounded in reply to Imrahil's words. I heard Húrin of the Keys mutter almost inaudibly, "Oh, bloody hell."

I looked over at Faramir, who was working hard at keeping his face expressionless. But I was certain I saw approval in his eyes as he listened to our uncle's speech.

"I remember," Imrahil said, "as will several others of this Council, Lord Aragorn's previous sojourn in our country as Captain Thorongil. He impressed me then as he does now, as a Man of nobility and honour. I remember the esteem in which he was held by the soldiers who fought under his command: the same esteem in which he is held now by so many who shared the journey to the Black Gate.

"In the expedition he led against the Corsairs of Umbar, I led the troops of Belfalas that took part in that campaign. I spoke with Thorongil the night before battle was joined. On that night, he was clearly troubled. I asked him if he foresaw defeat for our forces. He told me that no, he believed we would be victorious. But he confided that he planned to leave Gondor after the campaign.

"I remember the sorrow in his face as he spoke of it. He admitted that there was bad blood between him and the Steward's Heir, Lord Denethor. He told me the time had come for him to leave, for the peace and happiness of the kingdom.

"When the battle was won, Thorongil did as he had told me he would, though many mourned his departure. When he returned to Gondor in this month past, and we learned the truth of who he is, I dreaded the conflict that I believed must come between him and the Lord Denethor. Lord Faramir and I spoke of it, and we resolved that if our forces survived the expedition to Mordor, I would ask Lord Aragorn, for the sake of Gondor, to leave our country once again.

"I grieve the death of Lord Denethor," Imrahil said earnestly, turning to Faramir and me as he said it. "Yet in my heart I am glad that I had no need to ask Aragorn to depart. I would not have stood against the Steward my brother-in-law. Nor would I stand against Steward Faramir and Lord Boromir, if they opposed Lord Aragorn's kingship now. But they have stated that they do not oppose it, and that they will support the decision of the Council. When I learned that, I rejoiced. For I believe that Aragorn will be a king of whom any kingdom would be thankful and proud. He loved our country enough to leave it and to put aside his chance for the kingship, once before. Now that he has returned and has made his claim, I know his valour, his wisdom and his love for Gondor will make him the greatest king this land has known."

There was a scattering of applause from some of the Council. Lord Duinhir of Morthond, however, bore a troubled frown on his face as bowed his head to Imrahil and began to speak.

"With all respect to Prince Imrahil," said Duinhir, "and all with respect also to Lord Aragorn, I must state that Aragorn has no monopoly on love for our country. None here can deny it when I say that Lord Denethor loved Gondor as well – even as do Steward Faramir and the Lord his brother."

Gratitude swept my heart at the Lord of Morthond's words. He had said what I had cut myself off from saying, by proclaiming that I would take no role in this discussion.

Lord Duinhir was continuing, "Nor do I believe Lord Aragorn holds any advantage over our Steward and Captain-General in the qualities of a leader. They too are Men of valour and honour. They too are Captains beloved by their Men. And it is their family, not Aragorn's, which has fought to keep Gondor alive these thousand years past. I must say that this supposed love for Gondor sits strangely upon a Man who has scarcely ever _been_ here. My Lords, I, too, rode to the Black Gate; I, too, was impressed by Lord Aragorn's qualities as a Captain and as a warrior. But I can see no need to hail him as our king."

"It is true," exclaimed Húrin of the Keys. Húrin had in fact surprised me by holding his peace this long. "Why should we hail as king a Man who, by his own admission, has spent nine-tenths of his life in other lands? The Line of Isildur could not even keep their _own _kingdom intact. Why then should we believe that a petty chieftain with no kingdom of his own is the Man to rule Gondor?"

"My Lord Húrin," Faramir interceded, before several in the room could explode in outrage, "I believe that the term 'petty chieftain' is spoken of a prejudice that should play no role in our deliberations."

"As you will it, My Lord," conceded Húrin with some effort.

Faramir's intercession had not succeeded in banishing all of the Council members' wrath.

"If I may speak," Éomer King put in from his seat at Faramir's left. His voice quivered with an anger that stated he would dearly love to wipe the look of disdain from off Lord Húrin's face.

In his impassioned tones, Éomer began, "Like Prince Imrahil and Lord Duinhir, I too have had the honour of riding to battle with Lord Aragorn. A strange being indeed he seemed to me, when on the green downs of Rohan I first encountered him and his comrades. I asked him then whether he were a Man of our earth, or of legend. He told me that a Man may be both.

"In the days that followed I have found that he spoke true. For though he be a Man as we are, yet also he is more than mere Man. The lord my uncle, Théoden King, called Aragorn a kingly Man of high destiny, and in my heart I know the truth of those words.

"Rohan was a country besieged, when Aragorn and his comrades came to our land. Our spear arms were tied by the spell-cast sickness of the Lord our king, by the dwimmer-craft of the Wizard of Orthanc. Aragorn and Gandalf Greyhame returned to our king his strength and his hope. To Rohan they returned its heart. Théoden King and Aragorn the Heir of Elendil side by side routed the foe from Helm's Gate to the Great Dike. None who saw them that day could doubt that both of them were kings, Men fashioned by destiny to lead their people."

Éomer admitted, "I know that some may say I speak of feelings now, and not of proof. Yet proof there is; proof stronger than mortal Man could give. If Aragorn is not the king, how then did he lead his followers unscathed through the Paths of the Dead? If he is not the king, how is it that the Army of the Dead rallied to his call, and fought under his command?"

"If I may," put in Lord Duinhir of Morthond, in troubled tones, "the tale of the Paths of the Dead may not yet be known to all in this room. Rumours of it have reached me by messengers from my own land, for it is in Morthond Vale that the Stone of Erech stands, where Lord Aragorn summoned his Army of the Dead. It is my people who dwelt in terror while an army of spectres marched past their homes. Let us hear this tale, that all of us may judge it by fact and not by rumour."

It was Mithrandir who answered. "My Lord Steward," he said, "and Lords of the Council: there are two here best fitted to answer that request. Lords Elladan and Elrohir journeyed with Aragorn's forces through the Paths of the Dead, and stood at his side when the Sleepless Dead answered his call. I ask that the Council grant the Sons of Elrond leave to tell what they have seen and heard."

"You have good leave, My Lords," said Faramir.

The Elven brethren glanced at each other as though debating who would answer. Then again Elladan rose to his feet.

He began, in his melodious voice, "At Erech stands a black stone upon a hill, that was brought by Isildur from Númenor. By that stone the King of the Mountains swore allegiance to Isildur at the beginning of the realm of Gondor. But when Sauron returned and grew in might again, Isildur summoned the Men of the Mountains to fulfil their oath, and they would not: for they had worshipped Sauron in the Dark Years.

"Then said Isildur to their king: 'If the West prove mightier than thy Black Master, this curse I lay upon thee and they folk: to rest never until your oath is fulfilled. For this war will last through years uncounted, and you shall be summoned once again ere the end.'

"In the days of Arvedui, Last King of Arthedain, Malbeth the Seer spoke:

_"Over the land there lies a long shadow,_

_Westward reaching wings of darkness._

_The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings _

_doom approaches. The Dead awaken; _

_for the hour is come for the oathbreakers:_

_at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again_

_and hear there a horn in the hills ringing._

_Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them_

_from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?_

_The heir of him to whom the oath they swore._

_from the North shall he come, need shall drive him:_

_he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead."_

I think many of us in the Tower Hall shivered as the Elf Lord spoke these words. Without, the sun must have passed into a cloud, throwing the Hall into shadow. But the shadow passed, and sunlight gleamed again in the Hall as the words of Malbeth the Seer came to their end.

Elladan Son of Elrond went on, "To my brother and me our father said as we set forth to join Aragorn's company: 'Say unto Aragorn, _The days are short. If thou art in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead._' So Aragorn took the path beneath the Haunted Mountain, and his kinsmen of the Dúnedain, and Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli of Erebor, and my brother and I with him. And in the hall of empty shadows beneath the mountain, Aragorn spoke aloud: 'I summon you to the Stone of Erech!'

"Out of the Mountain's blackness we rode into blue twilight, and the Dead rode behind us, with their banners as of mist and their spear points glimmering on the edge of sight. Through the Vale of Morthond to the Stone of Erech we came in the dead of night. Then my brother gave Aragorn his silver horn, and Aragorn blew upon it, and the host of the Dead pressed all about us. Aragorn called unto them, 'Oathbreakers, why have ye come?'

And a voice answered as from the halls below the mountains, 'To fulfil our oath and have peace.'

"Others in this room will confirm what followed. From Morthond through Lamedon and the plains of Lebinnin we rode, and the Shadow Host with us, till we reached Pelargir upon Anduin. There lay the main fleet of Umbar, fifty large ships and smaller vessels beyond count, where their host stood ready to give us battle. Scarce the numbers of the crew of one their ships we had, yet in that battle none of us were scathed. For Aragorn set loose the Host of the Dead upon them. Like a grey flood they rode among the Men of Harad, and in the terror of them the enemy broke and fled, scattering before us like the leaves of Lorien in the first wind of spring. But," added the Elf Lord, gazing about the Council with a look part of request and part of challenge, "my brother and I are not alone here in witnessing these things. Others there are among your own number who saw it."

As most of the Council looked questioningly one to the other, Angbor of Lamedon cleared his throat and said with a discomfited frown, "It is true. At Linhir above the Mouth of Gilrain my Men contested the fords with a force of Umbar and Harad. Though we were in the heat of battle when Lord Aragorn's host approached, our foemen fled away in the fear of – of those who rode with them – and most of our folk did likewise. Aragorn bade me gather my Men and follow on to Pelargir – which we did, although it took no little persuading to make any Man follow in the roads that the Dead had trod!"

Amid a few nervous laughs from those about him, Angbor continued.

"When we came to Pelargir, the battle was done: the ships of the Black Fleet abandoned or ablaze, the foe drowned or fleeing southward. But the Dead were not yet gone. Myself I saw them, like a fog upon the shore, except for the sparks that were their swords and their spear-blades, and the star-gleams of their eyes.

"Lord Aragorn cried to them: 'Hear now the words of the Heir of Isildur! Your oath is fulfilled. Go back and trouble not the valleys again. Depart and be at rest.' Then I thought I saw the shape of a Man step out from the fog, and he broke his spear and cast it before Aragorn's feet. The Dead Man bowed and turned back toward the land, and all that fog and the swords and the eyes faded away and were gone."

Shudders and whispers sped among the Council. At some point during Lord Elladan's recital, Svip had reached up and clutched my hand. He managed a shaky smile at me when I squeezed his hand.

Elladan returned to his chair, while Angbor of Lamedon scowlingly eyed the Council as though daring anyone to cast doubt upon his story.

None spoke until our old comrade Captain Cirion of the Rangers leaned forward in his chair and said, "I mean no disrespect to you, Lord Angbor, or to the Lords the Sons of Elrond, or to any who endured the fear of this Host of the Dead. I am not sorry that I missed out on seeing them. But I ask all of this Council: is it on the word of some ancient Dead Men of the Mountains that we are to choose our king? Because the cursed Dead obeyed his summons as a means to end their torment, are we to believe that these Dead Men _knew_ who is Gondor's rightful king? By the Valar, I can easily believe that if they'd waited since the time of Isildur to perform some deed that would free them, they would follow _any_ Man who dared to stand at the Stone of Erech and tell them that he is king!"

At this, Mithrandir snapped in withering tones, "Any other Man who dared try it, Captain, would not have survived the attempt."

"So you tell us, Lord Wizard," Cirion fired back. "Pardon an old soldier's bluntness, but I would prefer some more solid proof!"

"It is a valid question," mused Captain Eradan the Commander of Cair Andros. "_Could _the Dead know in truth that Lord Aragorn is king? I—"

He turned an embarrassed look on me, then he hastened on. "Forgive me for asking this of you, Lord Boromir. But – you alone among all Men here have passed beyond the borders of this life and have returned. What do you think? _Do_ the Dead know that he is king? Are all the questions clear to them that are mysterious to us?"

The young Captain's voice was so pleadingly hopeful as he asked that, that I could not restrain myself from laughing. "I am sorry, Eradan," I said. "There is nothing I can tell you. I do not know if the Dead are gifted with miraculous knowledge or not, for the simple reason that I remember nothing of the hours I spent as one of them. I'm afraid that for answers to the questions of Life and Death, you will have to look elsewhere."

Several of the Council chuckled at that, while their more straight-laced fellows grimaced in disapproval at their laughter.

Dryly Master Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers observed, "We are wandering from the path, I think. I do not think it matters whether the Dead Men of the Mountains knew the truth of Lord Aragorn's claim. Lord Elladan stated very clearly that the Dead Men were bound to obey the heir of _Isildur_. It was Isildur to whom they swore fealty; he who cursed them. The words of the seer in Arvedui's reign spoke of them being bound to 'the heir of him to whom they swore;' the seer said nothing of them being bound to Gondor's king. We are not debating here the validity of Lord Aragorn's claim as Isildur's Heir. We are debating whether his status as heir to the Northern Line gives him valid claim to the Throne of Gondor."

There were murmurs of agreement. Lord Húrin whispered, "Oh, well said!"

"We must not forget," said the Chief Healer, with a frown of thought, "that there have been other signs. There is his power of healing: to which, with the assistance of the Lords the Sons of Elrond, we owe the lives of over three hundreds who were patients in the Houses of Healing. We would be the worst of ingrates did we forget not only the care he has shown for the people of our country, but also the power beyond mortal skill with which he heals."

"Of a surety," replied Captain Olfert, Post Commander of the Calenhad garrison, "those are deeds for which we must be grateful to the depths of our hearts. But are they deeds which make him our king?"

"It is said in ancient lore," the Healer countered, looking rather surprised at the objection, "that the hands of the king are the hands of a healer …"

"Aye, so it is said," cut in Lord Kirilhir of Ringló Vale, who had arrived in the City in time to spare his eighteen-year-old son the strain of being one of the Men to choose whether Gondor should again have a king. Kirilhir went on, "But I cannot say that I have ever read any specifics of it. You will know, My Lord Faramir, if any of us will: are there written in the chronicles of Gondor or Númenor any details of the kings' powers of healing, or of any kings, say, who were chosen for the throne by virtue of their healing gift? Were there any kings who were unknown and were identified by this power?"

Faramir frowned long in silence before he answered. "I do not think that I have read of any such," he said at last, with troubled gaze.

I thought suddenly of the words with which Faramir had awakened from the Dark Sleep, at Aragorn's call. Again I heard him murmur "My Lord, you called me. I am here. What does the King command?"

_What must it be costing him, _I thought, _to sit here and listen to this debate and not to speak for the choice that he believes to be right?_

_Our father is gone, _I thought. _Our father is gone, and with him, may the Valar be thanked, the necessity for Faramir to choose between Father and the king._

_And even so, even now, his determination to be the Steward he feels he should be, forbids him from speaking for what he believes._

Lord Kirilhir pursued, "Lord Mithrandir and the Lords the Sons of Elrond can tell us: is it not true that Lord Aragorn received his training in the healing arts from Lord Elrond Half-Elven? I think we must ask, then, if that is so, whether Lord Aragorn's healing skills are proof of his status as king, or simply of Lord Elrond's prowess as a teacher."

Elrohir Son of Elrond sprang to his feet at that. His brother gave him the same look that Faramir has so often turned on me, when he fears the ill-seasoned statements into which my wrath may lead me.

Despite Elladan's fears, Lord Elrohir managed to pause for breath, and at least to somewhat regulate his words.

Elrohir said, "There is more than our father's skill at work in Aragorn's healing power. From the day our father first commenced his teaching, when Aragorn was a child of no greater than five years, his quickness and understanding passed that of any other mortal. By the time he could look back on ten years upon this Middle Earth, Aragorn's power in those arts was rival to mine and my brother's, and we had been our father's pupils for over two thousand years. And ere three more summers had passed, Aragorn's skill surpassed ours."

"With respect," said Húrin of the Keys, in tones far less than respectful, "when you say his quickness and understanding passed that of other mortals, had you any other mortal with which to compare him? Had Lord Elrond attempted to pass on his skills to other mortal Men and found those other mortals lacking? Or do you simply _assume _Lord Aragorn possesses more than mortal skills, because your father says Aragorn is the King of Gondor and you believe him? If Aragorn surpassed you and your brother by the time he reached thirteen, may that not say more about the two of you than it does about Lord Aragorn? Are we to fall on our knees and hail Aragorn as king because the Sons of Elrond may be tardy pupils?"

The sudden rage on Elrohir's face predicted immediate death for Húrin. Elladan grabbed his brother's arm, and Faramir snapped coldly, "I will ask you to recall, Lord Húrin, that this is the second time this day I have been forced to caution you."

"I apologise, My Lord," said Húrin, "to you and to the Lords the Sons of Elrond." He bowed his head and kept his gaze fixed on his clenched hands. Elrohir took his seat once more, still glaring. It appeared to me that he sat largely by the force of his brother tugging on his arm.

Éomer King put in, in his typically heated tones, "There is another omen to consider, if the Paths of the Dead and Lord Aragorn's healing power are not enough for some here. What of the words of the eagle, of which we have heard since we returned from Mordor? Will not some Man here speak to that?"

The Council members looked from one to the other, and none answered. At length Faramir demanded, "Well? Did no Man of the Council hear the eagle's words, that have caused such a stir within the City?"

"I heard them." The reply came from Ivarr Son of Yngvar, of the Orc's Head Tavern, though by his tone he spoke far from willingly. Scowling, he went on, "I was at our guildhouse in the City, and I heard the eagle sing,

"_Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,_

_for your King shall come again,_

_and he shall dwell among you_

_all the days of your life._"

Looking embarrassed at this admission he had just made, Ivarr hastened on gruffly, "But I do not say we should make our decision based on the words of a bird."

That was too much for Lord Elrohir, who threw off his brother's arm and leapt once more to his feet. He cried out, "Is there no belief at all in the hearts of Men? Will you have the omens spelled out before you in letters a league high and still not accept them? You do not _deserve _Aragorn as your king!"

Several of the Council started to shout at once, but Faramir's voice carried over all of them.

"You have the apology of the Steward of Gondor, Lord Elrohir. We thank you for the guidance and wisdom you have shared with us. But you must understand that this Council must make its own decision. I ask you to accept my apology, and be seated."

Elrohir Son of Elrond swallowed, bowed, and sat.

Duinhir of Morthond spoke, apparently unmoved by the recent tumult. "I do not consider myself an unbelieving Man," he said, "and I think that this omen of the eagle has the same weight or lack thereof as the other omens we have heard. Clearly the Eagle Lord believes that Aragorn is our King – even as Lord Mithrandir and the Sons of Elrond believe it, and even as the Sleepless Dead believed him the Heir of Isildur. Lord Mithrandir, the eagles are your allies and friends, as we know from the account you related to us before Minas Tirith was besieged. I mean no disrespect to you or to the eagle lords. But the fact that you and they share the same opinion of Aragorn's claim to the kingship seems to me no omen, but merely a shared belief."

"It is a belief that many of this Council share also," said Éomer of Rohan.

Duinhir bowed his head to Éomer in response to that. But now Húrin of the Keys spoke up again, though in more restrained a voice than one might have expected of him.

"And it is a belief that many do not share," he said, slowly and calmly getting up from his chair. "My Lords and Masters, we have heard the words of the eagle, that our King shall come again, and we have heard the words of Malbeth the Seer. Yet I ask, what makes one Man a seer, when another, whose words also are remembered over the centuries, is thought merely a poet? I ask that this Council remember the words of Arnemir of Erelas. Ask yourselves if perhaps he was seer as well as poet, when seven hundred years ago he warned of the danger of kings."

I would not have believed it of Húrin. I had not heard him recite poetry since our schooldays, and even then he had done so under duress. But desperate belief in one's cause can lead a Man to surprising tactics.

Húrin declaimed now, in ringing, impassioned tones that our old Literature Master would never have thought possible from him:

"_All we have of freedom, all we use or know,_

_This our fathers bought for us long and long ago._

_Ancient right unnoticed as the breath we draw,_

_Leave to live by no Man's leave, underneath the law,_

_Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing,_

_Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the king._

_Here is naught unproven – here is naught to learn._

_It is written what shall fall if the king return._

_He shall mark our goings, question whence we came,_

_Set his guards about us, as in freedom's name._

_He shall break his judges, if they cross his power;_

_He shall rule above the law, calling on the Valar._

_He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring_

_Watchers 'neath our window, lest we mock the king._

_Strangers of his counsel, hirelings of his pay,_

_These shall deal our justice: sell, deny, delay._

_We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet,_

_While his hired captains jeer us in the street._

_Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain,_

_All our fathers died to loose, he shall bind again._

_Here is naught at venture, random nor untrue,_

_Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew._

_Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid:_

_Step for step and word for word, so the old kings did!_

_All the right they promise – all the wrong they bring._

_Stewards of the judgement, suffer not this king!_"

Húrin took his seat amid startled silence from the Council. His fists, I saw, were trembling.

It was Elrohir Son of Elrond who spoke first, but he spoke in tones surprising in their gentleness. With sorrow in his voice, he said, "Lord Húrin, you wrong Aragorn if you believe he would be a king like those of whom your seer spoke. I am his friend who speak it, but I do not concede that friendship blinds me in this. From his infancy I have known him. I will stake life and honour that Gondor need fear no wrong from Aragorn if he takes his place as king."

"It is true," Elladan said firmly. "I add my word of honour to my brother's."

"And I add mine," said Mithrandir, then he continued with a wry smile, "though I know that will do Aragorn's cause no good, with those who trust a Wizard's word no more than they do an eagle's."

"The Elf Lords, the Wizard and the eagle are not alone in this," said Éomer King. "I too will pledge my honour and my life, that Aragorn would be no king such as those in the poet's words."

"As will I," said Prince Imrahil. "And I will take the liberty of reminding this Council of the context in which the poet wrote. The 'old kings' of whom he speaks were those in the last days of Númenor, when, snared by Sauron, they sought to set themselves above the Valar. And the king that he warned against was no returning scion of Elendil's line. That poem was a warning against pride to Steward Hador, of whom some say that he contemplated changing the title of the stewards to king, and taking the throne for himself. Hador heeded the warning, as have all his descendants after him. But honest though the poet's words be – and honest though be the Man who speaks them – we need not fear that they portend disaster and tyranny if one of the House of Elendil sits again upon the Throne of Gondor."

Húrin of the Keys answered, though in tones still curiously calm, "Are we not taught that the words of a poet may have many interpretations? And how is it to be known that one man is a seer and the other a mere poet, but by the events that prove their words to be true? Malbeth the Seer's words would mean nothing to us now if Aragorn had not indeed followed the Paths of the Dead. If he had not, perhaps we would call Malbeth a poet, and no seer."

Húrin's voice grew impassioned again as he spoke. "I warn this Council; it will be on our heads if the words of Arnemir of Erelas also prove true. If there was peril in a Steward taking the title of King to himself, and seeking to make himself more than the first among his peers, does not the same peril hold true for a scion of Elendil's line? Why should we welcome, like lambs inviting the wolf into their sheep-fold, a Man whom we will set above us, and give to him and to his heirs power over our people?

"I do not gainsay those who say that Aragorn is a good Man, who will rule us with conscience and honour. But will his descendents also do so? Why should we give ourselves into the power of those we do not know, for no better reason than antique allegiance to a title from out of the musty scrolls of history?"

"Lord Húrin," Faramir said. This time he gave a melancholy smile, instead of taking Húrin to task. "One could ask the same question of the line of the Stewards, as you ask of the line of kings. That some are good Men, does not mean that all of their descendants will be so. Steward or king, either may prove a tyrant. In both cases, it is the responsibility of this Council to guide their return to the path of honour, or to punish them if they will not return to it. We have no guarantee that all of our future rulers will be just. But we will be no more free of that risk with Stewards than we would with kings."

"My Lord," Húrin said. Tears raced down his face as he spoke. "My Lord, a Steward does not rule by the sanction of magic, as would this king. The Stewards would not have the weapon that this line of kings would have, to hold their people in tyranny: the weapon of the magical endorsements that won for them the throne, and the belief that, with their healing hands and their birds of prophecy, they are more than mortal Men!"

"I will not make my decision based on magic," flatly said Captain Penda of Pinnath Gellin, "nor will I reject Lord Aragorn's claim out of fear of it. I would know the practical reasons for hailing him as king. What will Gondor gain by accepting him as king that she would not have without him?"

"We can give one of the answers to that," said Elladan Son of Elrond. "At least I hope that some of this Council will consider it a gain. Gondor would have the heartfelt alliance of the Elves of Imladris, and those of Lothlorien also. I do not speak this as a threat," he went on; "should Gondor not accept Aragorn's kingship, you need fear no hostility from our people nor those of the Golden Wood. The Sea calls to all of us, and we will not be long among you upon this Middle Earth. But while yet we tarry here, we will be the faithful allies of the kingdom that Aragorn rules."

"I have little doubt," added Elrohir, "that the same is true of the Kingdom of Mirkwood. With Prince Legolas as Aragorn's boon companion, the alliance of Gondor and Mirkwood is assured."

"And the same," put in Mithrandir, "can be said of the Dwarves of Erebor. Gimli Son of Gloin will forge an alliance of the kingdoms as strong and pure as any mithril-work."

Captain Eradan's eyes gleamed in wonder as he began to speak. "There would come as well the unification with Aragorn's ancestral holdings in the North … and perhaps also unification, or at least alliance, with the country of the halflings; do they not hail from those parts as well? With so many strong, new alliances with the kingdoms of the north, added to the ancient bonds of friendship that link all the lands of the south … why should Gondor not know a new golden age? We may have holdings greater than they have been since Elendil's day, and a time of peace and prosperity such as we have never known!"

"It is true," mused Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers. "The new trading links alone could enrich Gondor twenty-fold …"

"The trading-links could enrich _some _in Gondor," snapped Master Eppa of the Stonemasons' Guild. "But will these friendships with other lands come at the expense of Gondor's own people? Will this fine king who has the love of the Dwarves of Erebor bring _them_ in to do all his building-work, and leave the honest workmen of Gondor with no work for their hands and no food for their children's bellies?"

"Aye," said Captain Cirion of the Anórien Rangers. "There are good honest warnings in the Lord of the Keys' poem! Are we to find 'strangers of his counsel' and 'hired captains' lording over us and standing between us and our king? Will we be giving Gondor over to the hands of foreigners when we hand ourselves to him?"

"We will not!" exclaimed Éomer. "None who know Aragorn could ever think that."

"It should be possible," Faramir interjected, "to maintain friendships and alliances abroad, while yet standing faithful to the needs of Gondor's people. If in any way the king should fail in that, it will be the duty of this Council to remind him – and his descendants – that Gondor's people gave them their throne, and that Gondor's welfare is their most sacred charge."

The debate continued, but I lost the track of it, for Húrin Keeper of the Keys turned to me, seizing my arm. His face was dry now, but his voice was still raw with tears.

"How can you let this happen?" he demanded in a desperate whisper. "Why do you not stop it from happening; why will you not speak?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered back. "I don't know that it should be stopped. I don't know that it's the wrong thing to do."

"How can you not know it?" he hissed, his eyes wild with despair. "_How can you not know?_"

He turned away and stared desperately ahead of him, fighting to regain mastery over himself.

Svip, who had been huddling close to my chair, gazed up at me with a look of reproach. Then pointedly he got up and took a step over closer to Húrin's chair.

"Svip – " I began in a whisper.

But my brother's voice interrupted me, as in tones of command he addressed the Council.

"My Lords and Masters," he said, "the charge laid upon us is to weigh all that we have heard. Consider well all that has been spoken here. But remember: the decision must arise not from omens, not from precedent, not from the advice of allies. The decision must come from each Man's conscience.

"Tell me," he demanded of all of them, "is there more discussion to be held? Have we more questions; is there aught more that any of us wish to say? Or have we accomplished all we can with words, and the time is come to choose?"

The answer came slowly at first, from a few isolated voices. Then it was taken up by well-nigh every member of the Council.

"Choose! Choose!"

"Let us choose!"

Faramir held up his hand for silence. Then he stood and struck the gong that stands to the left of the Steward's Chair.

From their places along the walls where they had waited in silence, the servants came forward, bringing to each Man of the Council his travelling desk, with the pen, ink and paper with which he would cast his vote.

Only Faramir and I refused them. I smiled faintly at him, and he at me. Then we waited, as the Council penned their answers.

I looked over at Svip, but he stood like a sentinel at Lord Húrin's side, and would not meet my eyes.

The servants carried the votes to Razvan the scribe, then returned to their places at either side of the Hall. Razvan's assistant stood by the desk, waiting until the Chief Scribe should complete his count.

With painstaking lack of speed Razvan studied each paper and set them in two piles upon his desk. The scratching of his pen as he noted down each vote seemed the only sound in the Tower Hall.

There followed then another maddening wait, as Razvan's assistant in turn counted the votes, confirmed the Chief Scribe's count, and appended his signature to their written report.

At last, after at least an Age, Razvan stood, holding the parchment with their notations in his hands. He turned and bowed, stiffly but with dignity, to Faramir.

"You have a result to report, Master Razvan?" Faramir asked the question quietly, but I am certain that his voice carried to the farthest reaches of the Hall.

"I have, My Lord Steward," the scribe replied. "Be it known for the record that the Lord Steward Faramir and Captain-General Boromir have abstained from this vote. On the question of whether to acclaim Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn as King of Gondor, the vote of the Council is: In favour, twenty-three. Opposed, ten."

No one spoke at the first. I believe that all felt as stunned as I did; those who supported Aragorn's kingship no less than those who opposed it. We sat in silence a moment, sobered by the magnitude of this deed we had just wrought.

I think at first I had no reaction at all. Then my thought was, _I am sorry, Father. I am sorry. I hope you can someday forgive us._

Around the Hall, Men of the Council began to speak. I saw the delighted smile on Éomer's face as he reached over and shook hands vigorously with Uncle Imrahil. Identical grins of amazement spread over the faces of both of the Sons of Elrond, then they turned excitedly to say something to Mithrandir, who also was beaming like a new father holding his first child.

"Gentlemen of the Council," Faramir said. His voice silenced again the rising tide of exclamations. "The vote is sufficient for the two-thirds majority that custom requires. I trust that none will contest this result and ask for a further vote?"

No one answered.

"That is well. Let the vote that Master Razvan has reported be entered into the record of this Council. Yet for a decision of this importance, it is vital as we go forward that we have the support of all of Gondor's Council. I ask of all here to accept the choice of the majority, and to stand behind that choice. I move that the votes cast today be burned, and that the record shall state that the Council of Gondor unanimously asks the Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn to be Gondor's King. Are there any who wish to speak against this motion?"

Again there was no answer. I glanced over at Húrin, but he stared straight ahead, as motionless as one of the Hall's carven kings. Svip glared at me in a fury, still standing at Húrin's side. I reached out to put my hand on his arm, but he angrily shook it away.

"All those in favour?" Faramir continued.

There answered a chorus of "aye"s, in which I spoke along with the rest. I heard Húrin Keeper of the Keys speak it as well, although his "aye" sounded forth as though it cost him mortal pain to speak.

"And those opposed?"

None answered.

Faramir's voice rang out, "Let the record so show. Master Razvan, if you will bring the votes to me?"

The scribe carried the pile of papers to Faramir, bowed, and stepped aside. Faramir stood. One by one, as Council, guests and attendants watched in silence, he set each vote into the fire burning in the brazier by the Steward's Chair.

When the last vote had crackled and vanished in flame, Faramir spoke again. "I will ride at once to the camp of Lord Aragorn, and inform him of this Council's request. My Lords the Sons of Elrond, and Lord Mithrandir, I ask that you will honour this mission with your presence. All Men of the Council who wish to, I ask that you join us as well."

As tradition decreed, he struck the gong once, and declared, "My Lords and Masters, be it known that this session of the Council of Gondor is ended."

Freed at last from the strictures of decorum, most of the Council sprang to their feet and began speaking at once. There was a general rush toward Faramir, as Men sought to proclaim their eagerness to join him on the mission to Aragorn.

I kept my seat, and looked over to Húrin and Svip.

Svip looked back at me, both in accusation and in pleading. Húrin of the Keys had bowed his head and shut his eyes.

"It will be all right," I said urgently, to both of them. "It _is_ the right decision. Believe me. It will be all right."

Húrin looked up. "I know it," he managed to say, although his jaundiced smile as he spoke proclaimed just the contrary. "I know it," he repeated. "Eventually I will even come to believe it. But I'm afraid that will take me some time."

Lamely striving for some way lighten the mood, I said, "I nearly thought I was hearing myself at previous councils, listening to you; as though the ghost of my former self were speaking through you. Give or take the poetry."

"Aye, well," he said, with a half smile, half grimace. "Someone had to do it. They were things that needed to be said."

With a suddenness that left both Húrin and me staring, Svip bolted for the door.

I jumped to my feet, yelling his name. He was already out of the room.

"What the hell?" wondered Húrin of the Keys.

"Damnation," I groaned.

Politically, I knew, I should not go rushing after Svip. I knew very well that I should be seen to be here, not running out of the room the instant Aragorn was acclaimed king.

But politics, this time, would have to do without me.

"Excuse me!" I shouted over my shoulder to Húrin, then I plunged into the crowd.

There were more Councillors clustered around Faramir than I cared to fight my way through. But Uncle Imrahil was within easier reach.

I manoeuvred my way through the small crowd between us, and grabbed his arm.

"Uncle," I said. "Tell Faramir I'm going after Svip. He's upset; I need to talk with him. Tell Faramir not to wait for me. I wouldn't be able to go with you to Aragorn anyway, not unless this whole lot wants to take my route along the River."

Imrahil nodded. As I set out for the door at the best speed I could manage through the crowds, my uncle called after me, "Good luck!"

I had thought I would find Svip huddled in the Fountain, as usual. But this time, I did not.

With a feeling of foreboding that seemed to increase with each step, I hastened to the guards at the Citadel's gate.

"Did Svip just pass through here?" I asked of them, as I arrived at a run.

"Aye, My Lord," confirmed one of the Men, and the other put in, "As if the wolves of Angband were after him."

Cursing under my breath, I sped on. An alarmed-looking guard at the other end of the tunnel informed me that not only had Svip passed him a minute or two ahead of me, the shape-changer had also switched to horse form the moment he was out of the tunnel.

"Damn and blast," I hissed. I ran for the Stables.

It was the work of a few moments to commandeer one of the horses that are kept saddled and ready should any of the Message-Riders require them. I urged the horse down the Citadel road, though I was forced to rein in our pace by the risk of mowing down hapless townspeople.

I thought, _He is going home. Svip is going home, and I'll be too late to stop him. _

_I'll be too late even to say goodbye._

The guards at each gate and each tunnel confirmed that the big grey horse had passed by shortly before me. None had tried to stop him. They knew him as my companion, and presumed that he was on some mission for me.

At the Great Gate of Minas Tirith, the story was the same. One of the guards told me that he had attempted conversation with Svip. But when the shape-shifter snarled that his destination was none of the guard's business, they had let him pass with no further delay.

From the Gate I could spot him easily. Already two miles or so from the City, a small cloud of dust showed where his hooves pounded along the Harlond Road.

Biting back another curse, I urged my commandeered horse in pursuit.

The Errand Riders' steeds are of necessity no sluggards. But though we gained on Svip throughout that chase, he was still near a mile ahead of me when he reached the Harlond's gate. When I galloped up to the gate in turn, leaping to the ground and flinging the reins to the young soldier who ran out from the stables, I knew a dreary certainty that Svip would be too far ahead for me to ever catch him.

As the guards heaved open the gate, one of them told me, "Lord Svip said he was on an errand for you, My Lord. We saw no reason to doubt him—"

"I know that," I said. "Did you see anything of where he went; what he did?"

"Yes, sir," said the other guard. He stepped through the gateway to point out where Svip had gone. "He galloped to the end of the quay, there. Then he changed to his other shape and dove into the River. He was facing upriver when he dove; that is all I saw."

Shouting my thanks to the guards, I ran on to the quay, already knowing that I would see nothing of my friend when I gazed into the water.

In his own form, and with the lead he had on me, he would be both too small and too far away for me to see.

I yelled, "Svip!" I expected no answer, and I received none.

Without pausing to question my actions or to tell myself how stupid they were, I stripped off my outer tunic and dove into the Anduin.

Swimming against the Great River's current was a challenge. But it proved well within my abilities. I suppose it must have been so since the day I first awakened in Svip's home, changed by the water creature's spell that had brought me back to life.

Somewhat more troublesome than Anduin's current was the dull ache of my battered ribs, already protesting from the less-than-gentle treatment I had given them on my ride from the City. But the discomfort was easily bearable. I told myself that if anything, the time spent in Anduin's waters was more like to help my ribs than to make them worse.

Faramir, of course, would be unimpressed by this argument. I could already hear the lecture he would give me when he learned how I had treated my still-healing body.

But Faramir would understand. Faramir would know that I had to catch Svip if there was any way I could do so; that I must make every effort to find him and say goodbye.

I was swimming near the shore. Every now and then I would stop where a rock along the shoreline gave me something to hang on to, while I shouted out Svip's name and listened for any reply.

I was under no illusion that I would spot him, if he wished to remain hidden from me. The only hope was that he might hear me, and would relent enough to stop and speak with me.

_How long am I going to do this?_ I asked myself. _How far is too far; when will I have to give up?_

It was difficult to judge how far this pursuit had brought me. The shores and the Rammas wall to my left seemed identical from one mile to the next, though I thought I had seen four mile castles since I struck out from the Harlond.

It is fifteen miles along the River from the Harlond to Osgiliath. I told myself that I would go as far as Osgiliath, if I had to. If Svip had not chosen to stop and speak with me by then, there was little chance that he ever would.

_There is little chance that he will stop even now, _I thought bitterly. But I swam on.

It started to rain. I saw the circles of the rain's droplets, spiralling through the water about me.

A memory came to me of the day Svip and I spent hiding in the Nindalf Marshes, while rain plopped down on us and the sounds from the Orc encampment taunted us with the impossibility of journeying on.

As I swam, I cursed everything that had changed for Svip since that day in the marsh.

I cursed that I had brought him into the world of Men. I cursed that he had learned the anguish of loss, but that I could not teach him how Men learn to go on with their lives.

I caught hold of a boulder, trying to ignore the dull ache of my chest that grew more noticeable the instant I stopped swimming.

"Svip!" I yelled. "Svip, I just want to talk with you, before you go home. Please."

There was no answer. I swam onward.

I passed the fifth mile castle. There would be one more mile castle before the Rammas curved away from the shore.

_You've gone a third of the way, _I told myself. _A third of the way, and do you think you've accomplished anything besides making your ribs ache and earning Faramir's wrath?_

The long green face of my friend popped out from the water in front of me.

I was so startled that for a moment I stopped swimming. The current pulled me several feet back from him before I recovered myself and swam for the shore.

Svip, to my relief, was swimming next to me. When I hauled myself onto a boulder green with moss, at the shoreline, Svip leapt out beside me.

"You shouldn't be swimming this far!" he yelled chidingly. "Your ribs haven't healed up yet."

"I know it," I gasped out. "I'll stop swimming if you'll talk with me."

"Damn it, Boromir!" Svip shouted. "You'll kill yourself like this someday."

I laughed weakly. The water creature snapped, "What's so funny?"

"You sound just like Faramir."

The rain drizzled down on us, one of the soft rains of spring. Svip scowled up into the sky. Then he muttered, "Faramir knows what he's talking about."

I was sitting on the boulder now, hanging my legs down into the water. Svip perched next to me, huddled up with his chin propped on his knees.

"You shouldn't have followed me," he said, not looking at me. "I have to leave. I have to go home."

"I know that," I said. "I'm not trying to stop you. But in the world of Men, friends do not take leave of each other without saying goodbye."

"I don't care about the world of Men!" he raged. Svip turned on me suddenly and yelled, "How could you do that? You, Faramir, all of you! How could you give your father's kingdom away to him?"

He turned his angry, grief-stricken gaze away from me, leaning his chin on his knees once more.

In wonder, I marvelled at the heartache that the Council's decision had called forth in him.

"Svip," I began, "it was never my father's kingdom. The very word itself, _kingdom_, never allowed us to forget that. It was always the Kingdom of Gondor. The Stewards were caretakers only, guarding our country till the return of its king."

"Your father didn't believe that," Svip said harshly. "Did he?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "He always said that he did. He said that ten thousand years would not suffice to turn the line of the Stewards to kings."

"But he didn't want to give the kingdom to Aragorn! You know he didn't."

"No. That's true."

I watched the circles of the raindrops, spreading through Anduin's water.

"I don't know if he ever would have done so, in the end," I said. "With the Ring destroyed, and the Dark Lord gone … I don't know what he would have done then. But … this is the right thing to do, Svip. It is the right thing to do."

"Why?" he shot back at me. "Why is it the right thing to do? Your family fought for Gondor all these centuries; his never did. Why is it the right thing to give the country to him?"

"_He_ fought for Gondor," I argued. "He led the relief force that saved us from the siege. And forty years ago, he served my grandfather and captained the force that drove the corsairs from Umbar. He has fought for Gondor, even though his ancestors did not."

"You've fought for Gondor too! You've fought for Gondor always. And Faramir's fought for Gondor, and so has Imrahil, so have Éomer and Éowyn, so have I! Does that make any of _us_ the King?"

I sought for the words that could truly answer his question.

"Svip … it makes sense for this change to come to Gondor now. Sauron's passing has brought the end of an Age. They say it is six thousand years since first he sought to claim Middle Earth. If he is truly gone, now, then many things will change. It makes sense for Gondor to begin this new Age with her king restored to her."

"Why a king rather than a steward?" Svip insisted. "Why Aragorn rather than Faramir or you?"

As I answered him, the thought came to me that I was answering myself, as well. And I realised with surprise that I believed in the words I was speaking.

"Gondor will be stronger with him," I said slowly, "than she would be if we denied him. You saw at the Council; you saw the leaders of Middle Earth who favour his claim.

"He has the friendship of the Elves. True, many of them have left Middle Earth; many more will soon leave. But there are many of them yet, and they are yet powerful. They love him as one of their own. We would rob Gondor of the strength of that alliance did we turn him away.

"But more important than the Elves, he has the love of many of our own leaders. You heard how Imrahil spoke of him, and Éomer. They would not turn from our ancient alliance if Faramir instead of Aragorn ruled Gondor, but they would always wonder if we had made the right choice. I think in their hearts they would always regret it.

"I think that Faramir would regret it, too. So would many of our people. And regret would turn to doubt and bitterness. And doubt and bitterness can rot the strength of any kingdom."

_It is true,_ I thought, _and I believe it._

The realisation spread over me in a slow, growing surge of relief. I thought, _I _do _believe that the right choice has been made._

I believed it, and I could cease tormenting myself with doubts. I could stop wondering whether I'd done the wrong thing by keeping silent, by shifting the decision from my shoulders to those of Faramir and the Council. I could stop asking myself whether I should have steered Gondor away from accepting Aragorn's kingship – as our father might have steered our country's choice, had he lived.

_The right decision has been made. Gondor must move forward now and you must move forward with her._

The words that brought comfort to me had no such effect for Svip. I looked at him sitting slumped beside me, staring out at the River while the raindrops rolled unheeded over his skin.

"You don't care anymore, do you?" he murmured finally. "You, and Faramir. Neither of you care."

"What do you mean?" I asked him quietly. "What don't Faramir and I care about?"

"Your father," Svip whispered. "You're forgetting about him already. You don't care about what he wanted. And both of you, now, you're running after Éowyn. You're so busy wanting her, you don't think about your father at all."

_Oh, Valar, _I thought, _oh Valar, my poor, poor friend. _

_And what can I say to him? What is there I can say to help him understand?_

"Svip," I said, "that is not true. I think of our father every day. I know that Faramir does, too." _Although, _I added silently, _it were probably better for him if he did not. _"There is not an hour goes by that I do not think of him. That Faramir and I are courting Éowyn does not mean either of us have forgotten our father. Father wanted to see his sons wed; he wanted to hold his grandchildren on his knees. He cannot do that now, but he would not want us to grieve so for him that we cannot live our own lives. We would anger him did we do so. By the gods, I can hear the chiding he would give us if he dreamed we even thought of such a thing!"

Svip gazed at me in bleak incomprehension. I spoke on.

"It is part of the way our people heal. When we take a wife, when we hold children of our own … that itself is another link to those we love, who have gone before us. You see something in the face of your child that reminds you of your father, or your mother, or your grandparents, and you know that your line, and theirs, will go on. You know that through your children, and your children's children, you and all your longfathers before you will live on. You will be remembered."

My friend's expression had not changed. I sighed, knowing there might be no answer that would make any difference to him.

I said, "I'm grateful that you care for my father, Svip, and that you will remember him. But he would never want your grief for him to hurt you. It will cause him anger and sorrow if he knows the pain his death has caused you. For that reason if for nothing else, you must take heart, and go on."

"How?" Svip demanded. "How do I do that? I can't just decide that it doesn't hurt."

"I'm sorry," I told him. "I know it is hard to learn, now, when you have not spent your life in our world."

"I don't think I can learn it," he said, his eyes huge and sorrowful as he stared at me. "I don't think I ever can."

I reached out suddenly and grasped his hand. Svip squeezed my hand back, and whispered, "I have to go home."

"I know," I said. "I understand. But I don't want you to go alone."

"Come with me," he said. For a moment, hope sparked in his eyes – hope which I was forced to extinguish.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I have to stay; I have to be there when Aragorn is crowned. There is too much that all of us must do to rebuild Gondor. I'm so sorry, Svip; I cannot leave."

Svip pulled his hand away from mine and stared again at the River.

I said, "Please, wait until tomorrow morning and let me send an escort of soldiers with you. I don't want you making the journey alone. More of the enemy may yet linger in the marshes than we know. It makes sense to send an escort with you; after all, we are sending troops with our other returning people. And I want to be able to receive word of you, to know that you have made it home safely."

Svip said flatly, "I'll be safer if I go alone. The enemy wouldn't see me. They would see a troop of soldiers."

In that, he was almost certainly right. Since he had logic on his side – and since I had not in fact truly feared any enemy presence, but had merely used that as an excuse to retain some contact with Svip – I fear that I resorted to bribery.

"Listen," I argued, "if you go alone, you won't be able to carry the gifts I want to send with you."

In spite of himself, Svip's eyes lit up at that word.

"Gifts?" he echoed. Rather reluctantly, he added, "I don't need any gifts. You don't need to worry about that."

"But I want to worry about it," I said. "I haven't forgotten that I'm part of your collection. If I'm going to stay in Minas Tirith and you're returning home, then you should at least have some gifts to add to your collection. I don't want you to lose out from the exchange."

My poor friend wanted to resist, but the prospect of additions to his collection was too much for him.

"Well," he mused, "I suppose it wouldn't be bad to have some company on the journey. Could it be some of Cirion's Men? Holgar and Buslai, and Thorolf, too, if he's well enough. They're sensible, and we're used to each other, and they know a lot of the country up there. And … and I'd like to show Holgar my home."

"I will see to it," I said. "I will speak with Cirion and have them seconded from their regiment to accompany you."

Svip seemed to hesitate. I hoped against hope that he might be rethinking his decision to leave. But finally he stood up, and said, "You'd better let me give you a ride back to the City. How are your ribs?"

"They're fine," I sighed, standing up as well. "Thanks."

Svip hopped onto the shore, where he changed into his horse form. I followed more slowly, and stood for a moment at his side. As I patted his shoulder, I felt a stab of melancholy on thinking that this was one of the last times I would do that.

Carefully I got onto Svip's back. We set out through the rain, along the shore. Svip took the journey at a sedate pace out of concern for my ribs.

"Svip," I began, "will you do me a favour? Don't mention to Faramir how far I swam after you. It will only worry him, to no good purpose."

"I ought to tell him," said Svip. "If he yells at you enough, maybe that will stop you doing stupid things like that!"

"It won't stop me," I answered. "You ought to know that by now. When I have my mind set on doing stupid things, nothing can stop me."

"Well, that's true," Svip admitted grudgingly. "All right. I won't tell Faramir."

"Thank you, Svip," I said.

The rain fell on, soft and slow but unceasing. I smiled a little at the thought that some of the more grandiose lords and guildleaders would get their plumage soaked as they accompanied Faramir to Aragorn's encampment.

The mission to Aragorn would doubtless be depicted occurring in radiant sunlight, in future days when it was pictured in tapestries and paintings. But damp and squelching though the reality was, I thought, it would not matter to Aragorn. No gleaming sun could make this day more radiant for him than it was in truth already.

My smile vanished as I wondered whether poor Húrin of the Keys had forced himself to join in this ride to welcome our new king.

Much of the rest of that day I spent in making the arrangements for Svip's journey. I found Captain Cirion in the barracks at Minas Tirith, the Captain having pointedly not ridden in the mission to Aragorn. I set him to select a detachment of his Men including Buslai and Holgar to accompany Svip to his home, which command he accepted with the philosophical calm of one who has obeyed a good many peculiar orders in his time.

The choosing of gifts was a balancing act for me. I weighed my desire to overload Svip with presents in the attempt to assuage my guilt regarding him, against the logical consideration that if they _were _to encounter any of the enemy, the last thing the Rangers needed was to be burdened with a bulging pack train of trinkets.

At length I forced myself to keep the gifts relatively restrained, limiting them to objects with some personal meaning. I chose the golden leaf-patterned belt of Lórien and the grey Elven cloak under which Svip and I spent so many hours in hiding during that unending journey through the marshland. I chose a small selection of bottles: one of White Tree wine, a Dol Amroth white, and a Calenhad whiskey, along with a mithril goblet the stem and bowl of which were carved in the image of the White Tree. The small complement of weaponry that I included, I rationalised by telling myself that they would actually be of use to the Rangers if they should happen to run into the enemy. Finally I included a small portrait of Father, Faramir and me, painted when Faramir was ten and I was fifteen. Father commissioned that portrait when he and I returned from the Cair Andros Campaign, presumably in a fit of fatherly tenderness in his relief that I survived to return, after the famous incident in which I got myself skewered.

That portrait was on a wooden panel rather than canvas, which I hoped might give it a bit more durability. I wrapped it in my Elven cloak. Then I set my esquire Balamir to seek whatever other water-resistant materials he could find in which we might wrap it, in the hope that it would survive the trip to Svip's home beneath the River.

Assigning Buslai the Ranger to be part of Svip's escort reminded me that I had given my word to dine on some occasion with Buslai and his father, old Sergeant Brynjolf. It would make sense to fulfill this promise before I sent Brynjolf's son once more haring off into the wilderness. As it was yet early enough in the day to permit some planning, I sent a message to Buslai at Osgiliath, inviting myself over to his father's for the daymeal and granting him leave for the rest of the day in case he needed to help the old soldier get things ready.

Many households would find it a curse to be informed, with a few hours' warning, that they must entertain the Captain-General that evening. But I did not think that Sergeant Brynjolf would be troubled. I doubted that my presence would daunt him. He had witnessed too many of my childhood exploits to be in any way awed by me – as, apparently, he never tired of telling all of his neighbours on the Fourth Level.

It is my suspicion that most or all of that daymeal was cooked by Buslai, for I am certain that his father spent the afternoon informing every neighbour he could locate of the august visitor he expected that evening. That would account for the truly astounding number of Minas Tirith's citizens who just happened to be out and about on the Fourth Level when I walked to Sergeant Brynjolf's house.

All the bleak statistics I had ever heard regarding our population's decline seemed denied that evening. The street was abustle with townsfolk chatting with their neighbours on the doorstep, puttering in their terrace gardens, hanging out the washing, painting their front doors, and finding any number of other plausible reasons to be within sight and earshot of Brynjolf's house at the hour of sunset.

The sergeant made certain that he and his son welcomed me outside on the front step. Cheerfully I played my role in this little pageant. I allowed myself to be pounded on the back by the old soldier and gave him a restrained back-pounding in return, and I made all the appropriate nods, comments and jokes as he congratulated me on surviving against the odds yet again and launched into a few reminiscences of my days at Cair Andros as a wet-behind-the-ears cub.

Buslai was grinning widely as he watched the performance. When his father turned aside for a moment to grandly open the door for me, Buslai mouthed silently at me, "Thank you, sir."

Inside, over the stew, bread, and an excellent Tumladen ale, the conversation continued along similar lines – although a trifle less loudly, and with the flow of reminiscences occasionally interrupted for more serious topics.

Brynjolf grimly expressed his condolences for my father's death, and spent a while then in recounting memories of the Lord Denethor. While the sergeant could not claim to have known my father since the late Steward was knee-high to a Dwarf, Brynjolf's own first campaigns had been expeditions commanded by the Steward's Heir, young Captain-General Denethor.

"This foreign whippersnapper that I hear is going to be king can never hold a candle to your Lord father," opined Brynjolf, at which comment I nearly choked on a mouthful of ale, "or to you and your brother. It's a good thing he'll have the two of you around to tell him what to do. And while I'm thinking of it, what in blazes possessed you to give up the Stewardship?"

Yet again I gave my by now thoroughly shop-worn explanation for why Faramir was the right Man to be Steward. I might just as well have saved my breath, for my reasoning cut no mustard with Sergeant Brynjolf.

At length he pronounced, "It was a damn fool stupid thing to do, if you ask me – which, of course, you didn't. What in hell do any of us care how far you can go from the River?" He shook his head philosophically and continued, "But one never can teach you young fellows any sense. By the time you _have_ got some sense, you'll be broken down and gouty like me, and it'll be your turn to watch all the young Men making a hash of everything."

"It is the way of this Middle Earth," I joined in his philosophising, "probably decreed for us by Ilúvatar or some such personage. The younger Men must forever make asses of themselves, and the older Men must forever give them hell over it."

Only once, as that visit drew to a close, did old Sergeant Brynjolf depart from his pattern of reminiscing and generally giving me good-natured hell. As I stood to take my leave, and Buslai went to fetch my cloak, his father said in a voice suddenly thick with emotion, "My Lord – my boy has told me of his death at Lilla Howe, and that you convinced Lord Svip to bring him back to life. I want to thank you, sir, for bringing him home to me."

The old soldier swallowed, and said, "He is all I have left now. He, and my memories. And the memories are not enough."

"No," I agreed, "no, they are not. I was glad to bring him home, Brynjolf. I was glad to bring him home."

The decision to send Buslai and Holgar as members of Svip's escort had another notable impact. When I returned to my townhouse, it was to learn from my seneschal Gavrilo that this evening young Holgar Son of Armod had sought, and received, permission to woo Gavrilo's daughter Sigyn. I had apparently just missed a scene of tearful farewells in the parlour, enacted under the watchful gaze of the maiden's parents.

Whether any of the tears had been on Sigyn's part, I cannot say. When she waylaid me in the corridor as I made my way to my office, she was determinedly dry-eyed. She asked me for my honest opinion on what sort of conditions Holgar was going into on this mission.

On my assurance that there was every chance the mission would be free from danger, she bestowed on me a radiant smile and departed with that lightness of step of which only the very young are capable.

I smiled as I told myself that however much I might regret Svip's departure, it had this positive result: it had prodded Holgar into asking the question that he would have been an idiot not to ask.

The next morn, at a grey dawn that held the promise of rain, a goodly company assembled in my townhouse courtyard to wish Svip the Valar's speed. In addition to myself, the people of my household, and the twelve Rangers, Svip's well-wishers gathered there were Pippin and Merry, Faramir, and Éowyn of Rohan.

I had written to Lady Éowyn telling her of Svip's coming departure, for I thought she would wish to give him her farewells. She wished also to give him a remembrance more tangible. The Lady arrived at my townhouse carrying one of the spears of the Riders of Rohan. She took charge of fastening the spear into the gear that already loaded the gift-laden pack horse, all the while speaking quietly with Svip.

I had determined to give Svip the use of my Rohirrim steed Fengel, that he might have his own mount for the journey. While I was sure he was like to spend much of the voyage in horse form, there were bound to be times when he wished to take his own shape, or when his legs could use a rest. Fengel was the logical choice, as the horse that had spent the most time in Svip's company.

I was going to miss the stolid, imperturbable beast. But I had no need of him, I told myself, when Svip was not around to necessitate the use of particularly phlegmatic horses.

The horses that Lady Éowyn had trained to work with Svip numbered twelve, in addition to Fengel, to Merry's pony, and to Éowyn's own steed. Knowing this, I had set Cirion to choosing twelve of his Men for the mission, and I undertook that the eight horses of the Citadel and the four from my stable would be made ready for them.

Svip's escort was commanded by Thorolf Son of Eyjolf, who seemed none the worse for his poisoned arrow wound and his bout with Sauron's Dark Sleep. The Rangers busied themselves in checking over the animals, their equipage, and the provisions and equipment. Meantime Svip spoke quietly in turn with Éowyn, with Pippin and Merry, and with Faramir.

My brother had also brought a parting gift for Svip, for which Faramir found a place amidst the other presents. Faramir's gift was wrapped in oilcloth to waterproof it, and from its shape and size – and knowing Faramir – I had little doubt that it was a book.

The time for departure had come. Solemnly Svip shook hands with Éowyn, with Faramir, and with Merry. He and Pippin embraced, and when they parted the Hobbit turned away hastily to wipe at his eyes with his sleeve.

I set out from the City with Svip and the Rangers, riding Svip to the Harlond for one last time.

The Men respectfully held back from us as Svip shifted to his own shape and he and I walked along the quay.

"Shall we race across the River?" I proposed.

"Yes," he said. "Let's."

Together we dove into the water.

Our races had ceased to be races in anything but name. As had now become our usual practice, we regulated our speed to each other's. We reached the far shore at the same instant. We did the same when we returned to our usual steps at the foot of the dock, where we had sat and talked together so many times.

I wanted to linger there on the steps and talk with him now. But I told myself there was no use in any further delay.

Side by side we climbed back to the quay. There I knelt beside my small green friend, and in our spreading puddle of River water, we embraced.

When we drew apart, still keeping our hands on each other's arms, we could barely endure to meet each other's eyes.

"Remember you're part of my collection," Svip told me. "I don't want you to go getting yourself killed."

"I'll remember," I said. "Don't you go getting yourself killed, either."

He nodded, but apparently did not trust himself to speak.

"I'll come to visit you," I promised him. "I don't know when that can be. It will probably not be for some while yet, with all that we must accomplish here. But I will come."

Svip nodded again. "Take care of yourself, Boromir," he said to me at last.

"I will," I said. "You take care of yourself, too, Svip. Take care of yourself, too."

Fengel the horse gave a look of long-suffering as the water creature scrambled up the stirrups and into the saddle. Amid more-or-less cheerful farewells to me from Thorolf, Holgar and Buslai, their party set forth, riding through Waterfront at the beginning of a voyage that would take them two hundred miles along Anduin's shore.

Svip turned around and waved once, and I waved back. He did not turn again.

I watched until I lost sight of them behind a row of Waterfront's warehouses, at a point where the Great River curves.

I turned my steps then to the extra horse we had brought with us, held for me in readiness by one of the Men of the Harlond garrison.

_I will see Svip again, _I vowed in my thoughts. _I will see him again._

As I mounted up and rode through the Harlond Gate, I wanted nothing more than to wheel the horse about, gallop after Svip and the Rangers and share their journey with them.

But it was an idle dream. I knew that, even as I longed for it.

_You have resigned from the Stewardship only, _I told myself. _You cannot resign from your duty to Gondor._

_Your people __have need of you still. And your brother still needs you._

_Damned strange though it is to think about it, your king probably needs you, too._

Shoving aside my regrets and ignoring the tears that stung at my eyes, I rode toward Minas Tirith, and our country's future.


	27. Chapter 27: The Suitors of Lady Eowyn

Greetings to all! Thank you to everyone for the reviews and favorite story listings. And commiserations (or maybe just greetings again, since of course he's not dead!) on the anniversary of Boromir's death. Well, the more-or-less anniversary, since there are all those complications with different calendar reckonings in the Stewards' Reckoning and in the Shire, and all the rest of it. Anyway, greetings on a day that shares a date with the day when Boromir died!

Everyone who has seen _The King's Speech_ will recognize that the British coronation oath has been the inspiration for the Gondorian coronation oath in this chapter. Also in this chapter comes a plot twist which I'm a little nervous about, as I'm not sure how people are going to react to it. But I think that it fits in with the story as it has developed, so I will stand by it. And I hope that more people end up liking it than not!

Thank you again to everyone for continuing to follow these adventures!

_Chapter Twenty-Seven:_

_The Suitors of Lady Éowyn_

Five days later, on the eve of Aragorn's coronation, I rode from the City on my own mission to Aragorn.

Strictly speaking, the mission was not mine. I told myself, only partly in jest, that I rode that day as the emissary of the Great River.

Pippin had reminded me of this particular loose end that needed tying up. On the morning when I returned from accompanying Svip's party to the Harlond, I found Pippin awaiting me at the gate to my townhouse, face set in a troubled frown. He announced, as I dismounted, "Boromir, we need to talk."

In the townhouse courtyard, after we'd returned the horse to my stables, Pippin launched into the cause of his trouble.

"I just remembered," he said. "The _palantir_. We forgot all about it."

"The _palantir_?" I repeated. And then I paused in dismayed surprise, for Pippin was right. I had forgotten about the seeing-stone, or had at least forgotten that we probably ought to do something about it.

"We should have had Svip get it back before he left," Pippin said. "I don't suppose we can just leave it there? With the Dark Lord gone, I guess it wouldn't be such a problem if someone found it someday – would it?"

"There would not be the problem of Sauron entrapping the person who found it," I agreed. "But I do not think it is something we should just leave at the bottom of the River."

I realized, "It should be in Aragorn's keeping. The stones were made for Gondor's kings, and the Stone of Orthanc is in his keeping already. The difficulty," I went on, thinking aloud, "is the River."

The Anduin, as we'd seen demonstrated all too clearly at Lilla Howe, does not take kindly to the loss of items It regards as Its own. It was likely that the Great River now considered the _palantir_ Its posession. I doubted that Svip had tried to explain that we were only entrusting the seeing-stone to Its care for temporary safe-keeping.

We sent for Pippin's pony from the Citadel stables, and the Hobbit and I rode back to the River.

Nigh half a mile south of the Harlond Pippin showed me where he and Svip had hidden the seeing-stone. They had chosen for their landmark a spot where a stunted tree grew thrustingly out from the cracks of a boulder on the opposite shore.

"Svip said he buried it in the river bottom just below that tree," Pippin told me. "He put some rocks over it to keep it in place – as long as the River hasn't decided to move it."

I swam beneath and learned that, thus far at least, Pippin's worry had not been fulfilled. I swiftly found the small cairn, and shifting a few of the stones revealed to my questing fingertips the smooth, rounded surface of the _palantir_.

There I left it. I swam back to the surface pondering our course of action.

I decided I should introduce Aragorn to the River, and before I reclaimed the _palantir_ for him, he must give the Anduin something in exchange. Probably this introduction was the right course to follow in any case, even if we did not have the _palantir _to consider. As the soon-to-be King of Gondor, he should be formally presented to our country's river – now that I knew the Anduin is indeed a deity as our ancient ancestors claimed, and not just a body of water.

I asked myself if this little ceremony should take place before the coronation, or after it. After made some sense, for then Aragorn would stand before the River fully invested with all of his authority.

But, I thought, it would likely be a lot easier to get Aragorn to the riverbank before the crown was planted on his head. Wait until that one final step was complete, and we would have every last one of Aragorn's counselors weighing in on the question, would probably have to take it to the Council, would spend weeks in argument over it, and would eventually conduct this ceremony with the entire blessed court in attendance.

So it was that on the day before the coronation, I rode to the encampment at the Causeway Forts.

Aragorn was seated at work in the tent where we had previously met with him, at a table piled high with books and documents. He had been writing something, but when one of his Rangers announced me, the king-to-be leapt up, crossing to me with outstretched hand and a welcoming smile.

"Boromir," he said, as we shook hands, "I am glad to see you. I feared you might be Lord Húrin of the Keys, come to consult on yet some further detail of the coronation ceremonials of ancient Gondor." With a rueful shake of his head, Aragorn went on, "I agree it is important for me to be as familiar as I can be with the careers of my predecessors and the traditions of my office. I merely never dreamed that the scribes of Gondor have kept such meticulous records. When my foster father first revealed to me my heritage, I never imagined someday knowing the entire list of recitations at Eldacar's coronation, or the colour of the coronation socks of Atanatar the Glorious."

Somehow I managed to retain a straight face. "Húrin's duty is to uphold and preserve the traditions of Gondor," I said. "And Húrin is nothing if not thorough." Curiosity overcame me, and I asked, "What colour _were_ the socks?"

"Purple," Aragorn answered, with a deadpan expression. "Or perhaps it was more of a lavender. I told Lord Húrin that I do not believe we need retain _all_ the details of past coronations, and that besides I will be wearing boots, so no one should be able to see the colour of my socks."

Keeping my own expression solemn, I observed, "Let us be thankful that Húrin is not attempting to make you wear lavender boots."

I wondered if Aragorn were aware that Húrin had likely buried him in the records of past coronations as a relatively harmless way of venting his outrage at Aragorn being acclaimed king. Most probably he was aware of it; if not through Aragorn's own considerable insight, then through Elladan and Elrohir, Mithrandir, or some other of his adherents reporting to him on Húrin's dedication to the cause of a kingless Gondor.

If Aragorn was not aware of this, I would not be the one to cause any difficulty for my old school friend and colleague by speaking of it.

With alacrity, then, we abandoned the topic of lavender-coloured footwear, and turned instead to the matter that occasioned my visit.

Accepting Aragorn's offer of a chair, I launched into the tale of my interactions with the Great River since my return from the dead.

Aragorn listened sombrely, with no hint of disbelief or doubt. If there were any Man to whom such a story would not seem overly strange, I reflected, it was likely Aragorn, he who had commanded the expedition through the Paths of the Dead.

It was much as conducting a similar discussion with Faramir would be, for Aragorn interspersed my recital with many and genuinely interested-seeming questions on the nature of the River.

At last I concluded my tale with, "I feel that you should be formally made known to the River. I will undertake to retrieve the _palantir_, but I believe you must make the River some appropriate gift in return. You are the logical Man to take charge of the seeing-stones, but that logic will not help us much if the River floods Minas Tirith in Its outrage at our taking back a piece of Its tribute."

"I believe you are right," said Aragorn, frowning in thought. "The question, then, becomes what is an appropriate gift?"

I suggested, "There must be many items in the Treasury of Gondor that would serve the need." I had just barely stopped myself from referring to it as the Steward's Treasury, as Men had called it now for probably eight hundred years.

"Aye, there must be," Aragorn answered, frowning darker, "but I would prefer that the gift be something which was unquestionably mine _before_ the Council voted for my accession. I will be happier by far if my first deed in office is not one that could be interpreted as raiding the Treasury."

"It's a good point," I said. Personally, I had no wish for him to raid the Treasury, either. But I'd thought that the offer had to be made.

"Then what?" Aragorn thought aloud. "I cannot give the River the leaf-brooch of Lórien; each of the nine of us has that. It would be hardly a fit exchange for a _palantir_."

He began to pace the few feet available to him in the tent. I kept my silence, thinking that this choice was one of the many kingly duties that I did not envy him.

The aspects of kingship that I _did _envy him, I told myself, I would not think about.

As many times as my father had told me that ten thousand years would not suffice to make a Steward a king, he had also told me – and Faramir – not to waste our time dreaming of things that can never be.

At last Aragorn stopped pacing, and nodded in decision. He said to me, "Excuse me. I will be right back."

He was, indeed, back before many minutes had passed. He wore now a pack slung over his back; either the same pack he had carried on our journey from Rivendell, or its twin. The pack seemed all but empty now, as though it likely held only one object. But what object the pack held, I did not think it my place to ask.

"Shall we go to the River now?" Aragorn asked me, smiling.

"Very willingly," I said, getting to my feet, "if you can spare the time."

With a rueful grimace our king-to-be answered, "I can spare the time a great deal better today than I will be able to after tomorrow."

It was the work of moments for one of his Rangers to bring Aragorn's horse and mine. I thought that the Ranger cast me a hostile look, and I wondered if he suspected I might be plotting to assassinate his chieftain as soon as we were alone together. But perhaps his look was merely the standard hostility that sometimes exists between we of Gondor, and the outlanders of the north.

Our ride along the path of the Rammas wall, at the first, was marked by much discussion. Aragorn returned to asking me many and detailed questions on my observations of the River and my interpretation of its actions – more questions than I had thought of asking, and many that I could not truly answer.

I wondered whether Aragorn contemplated writing a book on the subject. If he did, I thought, he was out of luck. It would be long indeed before our new king was likely to have time enough on his hands to write a book.

We were about two miles shy of the Harlond when Aragorn apparently ran out research questions. I sought about in my mind for some other topic of conversation.

At length I asked him, "What do you think of this coronation ball?"

Aragorn glanced at me with a small smile of amusement. "I think of it much as you think of it," he said, "if the blackness of your scowl is anything to go by. I could do without another occasion on which to be paraded before the people of Gondor in my finery, like some prize hog at the town fair. But it will be an opportunity to speak with many of the Council and their families whom I do not yet know, and for that I am grateful. I am less grateful," he admitted, "for the dancing."

I hazarded the guess, "There has not been much time for dancing of late, in the forests of the north?"

"I learned to dance as a child at my foster father's court," Aragorn answered. "But I will not dance tomorrow evening, for she will not be there."

The quietly reverential tone of his voice left no doubt as to the identity of the "she" of whom he spoke.

An aura of melancholy descended on him as we rode on. Essaying to lighten his mood, I grumbled, "At least you have a reasonable excuse to avoid the dancing. I, sadly, do not. So I will be spending the evening walking on eggshells as I attempt not to tread on the toes of any young lady with whom I'm obliged to dance."

Eyeing me wryly, Aragorn said, "You are light enough on your feet when you fight. Perhaps you should think of the dances as merely another form of combat."

"Yes," I said, "one that involves a good deal more bowing and hand-holding, and rather less kicking and lopping off of heads. I'm sure the young ladies of Minas Tirith will be delighted to learn that I'm thinking of them as a particularly delicate breed of Orc."

Aragorn's expression drifted back into melancholy. As I glanced at him while we rode, I found myself thinking with rather more respect than I had previously of Aragorn's betrothal to the Lady Arwen.

In what little thought I had spared for it before, I had assumed it a useful political alliance and nothing else. That it was useful, was certain; the friendship of the Elves of Imladris and Lothlórien likely played no small role in certain Council members' decision to vote for Aragorn's kingship. But his face and voice as he mentioned the lady now proclaimed that for him at least, this alliance was far from being merely political.

"Will the lady soon join you here?" I asked him.

"It is my prayer and my devout wish," he said. "She will, if what has been promised is kept. Lord Elrond laid this doom upon us," he explained, "that we should not marry until I held the kingship of both Gondor and Arnor."

I stared at him, hoping that not _all_ of my surprise and distaste showed upon my face.

Even as my estimation of the ties that bound Aragorn and the Lady Arwen had grown more complex and a good deal more respectful in these last few minutes, my impression of the lady's father took a journey in the opposite direction. With Aragorn's latest words, my opinion of Lord Elrond Half-Elven plummeted with dramatic suddenness.

There seemed, at first glance, a cynicism in his actions that was far from the realm of the standard political marriage.

Political marriages are built upon the ranks that each partner holds, or that they may be reasonably expected to inherit by normal paths of succession. It is _not _standard practice for marriage to be a prize that is dangled before the prospective bridegroom, to pressure him into seeking after some other rank. A rank, moreover, not even within his own country, but one that requires him gaining control of another nation.

It was difficult to avoid the conclusion that the Elven Lord had used his daughter's chastity as the key with which he plotted to make himself a power behind Gondor's throne.

Of course, I told myself, Lord Elrond's supporters would likely point out that he and all his folk are not long now to dwell upon our shores. They would argue that with his journey across the waves so nigh upon him, the Elf Lord would feel no need and no desire to meddle in the politics of Men.

All well and good, I thought. But if that argument were to hold weight with many of the people of Gondor, then Elrond had better be heading for his ship pretty damned swiftly after the marriage ceremony ended.

_Perhaps I am too harsh on him, _I sought to convince myself. _Any father would wish to see his daughter in comfortable circumstances. Who would not prefer, for his son-in-law, a king to a penniless wanderer, even if that wanderer _does _happen to be one's foster son?_

Or then again, perhaps Lord Elrond did not wish Aragorn for his son-in-law at all. The condition he'd placed upon the marriage might be like unto the supposedly impossible tasks that are assigned to younger sons in the fairy tales – tasks which, of course, those sons manage to accomplish with the aid of magic.

One thing was certain. I hoped that my Lord father had never learned of this particular aspect of Aragorn's quest for the throne – or that he _would_ never learn of it, wherever he was now. Even more, I hoped that Lord Húrin of the Keys would not come to learn of it.

Both the slain Steward and the living Keeper of the Keys would be livid with outrage, did they learn that a major motivation for Aragorn's quest might be not the love of Gondor, but instead the love of the Lady Arwen.

I wondered whether Aragorn had considered any of these implications.

One would assume that he had. But I have oft had occasion to note that the wisest Men may be strikingly foolish where practical questions of life are concerned.

So I said, "My Lord, if I may give a word of advice. I know not if it be your habit to share that fact you have just spoken with many, or if you simply felt more comfortable in speaking of it with me."

Why that should be, I could not have said. It seemed to me that he and I were hardly such friends as to share confidences with each other – except, of course, when I was dying. But I let that thought pass.

I went on, "Whatever be the case, I would urge that you speak of this only with your closest comrades, now. There are some in Gondor who take no great joy in your accession to the throne. Some there are also who hold no love for the Fair Folk of the Forests. It is best, I think, if as few Men as possible hold knowledge with which they could claim that the love of your lady guided your path to Gondor's throne – not the love of your country."

Aragorn looked at me with a sombre expression that I could not read – whether it betokened surprise, dismay, or simply weariness at having to hear again an argument that he already knew by heart. Quietly he said to me, "Thank you, Boromir. I will bear that in mind."

That was the end of any conversation until we reached the stretch of Anduin where lay the seeing-stone of Minas Anor.

The slope of the riverbank here was a slight and gentle one. We left the horses a fair ways back – although it would not be far enough back to help them, I feared, if we should have the misfortune to anger Anduin. Aragorn and I walked together to Gondor's River.

As we neared the water he asked me, "Did you feel a complete fool the first few times you addressed the River?"

"Decidedly," I said. "That feeling tends to fade after you've seen the River rise from its banks and seek to drown you and all of your comrades."

Despite my statement to Aragorn, I yet felt a bit conspicuous as I waded in up to my thighs and attempted to mentally prepare my words to the River. But that feeling posed no particular difficulty. I am well used to feeling conspicuous.

Aragorn had waded in also, and he stood by my side, a pace behind me. With a mental shrug, I hailed the Anduin.

"Great River!" I called. "I, Boromir Son of Denethor, greet you. I beg leave to make known to you the Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North and scion of the line of Isildur, who has been chosen by the Council of this realm to succeed to the throne of Gondor."

I glanced to him. Probably thinking something the equivalent of my own mental shrug, he stepped forward.

"Hail to you, Great River!" declared he. "In respect and love I greet you; I, Aragorn Elessar, the Elfstone, wielder of the Sword Reforged, of the line of Valandil, Isildur's Son, Elendil's Son of Númenor, tomorrow to take my place upon Gondor's throne."

I thought Aragorn might be laying it on a bit thick with all of those titles. But fortunately he stopped there, without listing the scores of other titles and names to which I am certain he can lay claim.

He went on, "As Gondor's king I thank you for your many blessings to our realm. I rejoice in this opportunity to speak my thanks to you in person. You are the sustainer and guardian of our nation. Now as in the ages past, you have our love and our fealty."

Aragorn paused a moment to marshal his words. "Great River, the Lord Boromir and I request from you an object that has been placed in your safe-keeping: the _palantír_ of Minas Anor, entrusted to your care by Master Svip of the Duinhirrim some weeks past. That you may not think we take only without giving, I ask that you accept in return a token of Gondor's allegiance and of mine."

He reached into his pack and brought forth the object he had carried within it. I realised with surprise that I recognised what he was holding: the gleaming, star-like gem that I remembered seeing him wear upon his brow, that day of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

His face went grim, I thought, as he spoke. But nonetheless his voice remained resolute, as he held out the mighty jewel before him.

"Great River, preserver of our nation, I offer to you the Star of Elendil, second of its kind, cut by the Elves of Imladris for Valandil, Isildur's Son, worn after him by the thirty-nine kings and chieftains of Arnor, until this present day."

I hissed in a breath in astonishment as Aragorn revealed the gem's identity and its lineage. I was astonished that he would part with such an irreplaceable heirloom. Still more was I astonished that he would part with it on motivation no weightier than his faith in my word.

He spoke, "It is fitting that the Star of Elendil be given into your keeping, now when the thrones of Gondor and Arnor are to be reunited; when the Heir of Isildur abides once more in your land. I ask that you take this symbol of our loyalty to you, and that you will release from your guard the seeing-stone of Minas Anor."

I thought it was likely to be an act of self-control painful in the extreme, for Aragorn to cast this token of his inheritance into Anduin's waters. But it turned out that he would have no need to nerve himself to that sacrifice.

The Great River took action instead. With no warning or preamble, a wave leapt up at both of us.

It was only a minor wave by this deity's standards; twelve foot or so, and gone almost as soon as it had come. But it was more than enough to drench Gondor's soon-to-be king, and the brother of her Steward.

Both of us kept our feet. As we stood there in silent amazement, blinking water from our eyes, I noticed two things.

The Star of Elendil, that Aragorn had held in his hands, was gone. And bobbing gently before him on the still slightly choppy water, was a smooth, round object, dark and shining – looking almost, if one did not know what it was, like some manner of small fishing float.

It was not a fishing float, of course. What floated there before King Elessar of the line of Valandil was the _palantír_ of Minas Anor, the seeing-stone of Gondor's ancient kings – the tool with which the Dark Lord had ensnared my father's mind through his love and care for our people.

Odd in the extreme it was to see the _palantír_ floating, when I recalled how it had broken through the floor of my father's tower room. But I suppose making a lead-heavy object float is no great matter for a river that can hurl Itself beyond Its banks and stand in a forty-foot wall upon the land.

I saw Aragorn swallow, but in no other way did he betray any nervousness when he reached down to take up the seeing-stone.

"Great River," he said, holding the stone in both of his hands as before he had held the Star of Elendil. "I give you my thanks."

Slowly and with great care – if it were me, I know I would have been praying not to drop the thing – he placed the _palantír_ into his pack. He looked in question at me, and I nodded. The King of Gondor turned and walked from the water, with me following him a pace or two behind.

We spoke little until we were ahorseback again and presumably well out of the earshot of the River. We were on the road toward Minas Tirith and had received the surprised and rather amused glances of the guards at the Harlond Gate who beheld, this time, two thoroughly soaked Lords of Gondor instead of the usual one.

Aragorn glanced over at me with a wry and bemused smile.

"That went rather well, I thought," he said. "Give or take getting soaked, but a Ranger should be able to endure that. Come to that," he added, "so should a king."

"It went well indeed," I answered. "I think you can consider that today's anointing has made you king as thoroughly as will any of the ceremonies on the morrow."

He nodded. "More so, perhaps," said he. "And this particular ceremony had the advantage of being shorter, and having a far smaller audience."

Unsurprisingly, neither of us was much in the mood for chatter. We fell silent again on the ride to the City's gate. But when we parted there, I to ride in to the City and Aragorn to return to the Causeway Forts, I felt that something more had to be said.

I did not want him to think I had not realized what a sacrifice it must have been to relinquish the Star of Elendil – or that I was unmoved by the realisation that he'd made the choice based on nothing but the fact that I'd told him this was something he should do.

Putting all of that into words, of course, was no easy task. At last all I said was, "It was a mighty leap that you took, choosing to give the Star of Elendil to the keeping of the River."

He answered, "All of us have taken mighty leaps in these days past. And we will take more in the days to come."

He frowned with troubled mien as he said that. I pondered his expression and his words as I took the familiar ride up the Citadel Road.

Aragorn Son of Arathorn, I thought, looked forward with mixed feelings to being crowned upon the morrow.

I could hear what my father and Lord Húrin of the Keys would say to that. If the damnable fellow didn't even want the throne, then why in blazes had he claimed it?

But I felt no need to ask that question. I thought I could see clearly enough the kind of thoughts that Aragorn must be facing this night.

Well do I know, there are duties that a Man may joy to undertake – and that he may dread to face, at one and the same time.

* * *

Dawn broke upon a clear morning that seemed the embodiment of all the beauty and light we had known since the Enemy's fire vanished from the East.

Before the City gate, at the First Hour, there gathered a great multitude of Gondor's people.

At the Great Gate itself stood Faramir with his attendants. Beside him, jaw grimly set and eyes gleaming in anger and pride stood Lord Húrin, Keeper of the Keys. I stood to the right of the Gate with the Men of the Citadel Guard. To the left were Éomer King, the Lady Éowyn, and the Riders of Rohan.

As my gaze ranged over the throngs of our people assembled to either side of the road, I wistfully wished that Svip could be here.

My wish was for the old Svip to be with us now; Svip as I had first known him. I could see as vividly as reality how he would flit to and fro amid the crowd, hopping about and investigating anything and everything, asking every question that popped into his head.

That Svip, of course, was gone. He was perhaps gone from us far more irrevocably than Svip himself was absent in person.

If Svip _were_ with me, I knew he would be glaring at me in accusation; smouldering with anger as bitter as that which I could see in the rigid posture and clenched fists of Húrin of the Keys – as bitter as the anger I imagined my father feeling now.

I sought to banish from my mind all thoughts of my father's feelings, of Svip's, even of those of the unfortunate Lord Húrin who stood at my side. I told myself that I could not live out my father's unfinished life for him. I could not and I should not wish to do so. I could not allow the anger and grief of others to overwhelm what I felt myself.

On this day of such great import to the history of Gondor, the only thoughts and emotions for which I was responsible were my own.

Near the spot where the road from the Causeway Forts meets the road to the Harlond, some of the grooms of the Citadel Stables guarded the steeds of Aragorn's Men. From that point the King and his party advanced on foot toward the Gate.

At the head of the grey-cloaked band of Rangers marched Aragorn himself. The sunlight glinted as fire from his scale mail tunic of the black and silver of Gondor and from the pure white of his cloak. As he drew near, I saw that his cloak was fastened with a great green gem. His head was bare, and I wondered whether he would have worn again the Star of Elendil, if he had not ended up presenting it to the River Anduin.

At Aragorn's right strode Mithrandir, the white of his robes so brilliant that it hurt almost to look upon him. To Aragorn's left was my uncle the Prince Imrahil. Behind the three of them, flanked on the one side by Legolas and Gimli and on the other by the Sons of Elrond, marched four small figures whom I smiled to see: the four indomitable Hobbits of the Shire.

Three of the Hobbits looked appropriately solemn. Pippin broke into a grin at me as they approached, but he managed to restrain himself from waving.

Aragorn stopped before Faramir and Lord Húrin, with the rest of his party waiting a few paces behind.

From atop the Great Gate a lone trumpet rang forth in a call that none had heard in nigh to a thousand years: the fanfare for the King of Gondor.

Faramir stepped forward.

"Men of Gondor," he spoke, "hear now the Steward of this realm! Here is Aragorn Son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's Son, Elendil's Son of Númenor. He has the acclamation of the Council of Gondor to claim the crown and reign from the throne of his longfathers. Men of Gondor, I ask of you now: shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?"

There had been considerable discussion in the coronation's planning sessions as to whether we should retain the ancient ritual of the question and acclamation by the people. More than a few members of the Council had argued that in the upheaval of our current political circumstances, it were wiser to simply leave the question out.

Aragorn himself had delivered the final verdict on the issue. He had declared that the ancient question must be kept. He had no intention, he stated, of struggling to keep a hold on the throne if his reign was doomed from the start by the opposition of the people. If he could not win their acclamation, then he would go back to the North and forget the notion of being king in Gondor.

I know not how many among us held our breath when Faramir's voice rang out in that question. I could only too easily imagine Lord Húrin grimly fantasizing, if only for an instant, that Gondor's people would end the reign of the new king before it even began.

If Húrin did permit himself to dream of that, it remained only a fantasy.

I do not know if any of our people there assembled voiced opposition on that day. If opposing voices there were, they were drowned in the torrent of acclamation that answered the ancient question.

At last Faramir held up his hand for silence.

"Men of Gondor," he declared, "the loremasters tell us that it was the custom of old that the king should receive the crown from his father ere he died; or if that might not be, that he should go alone and take it from the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid. But since things must now be done otherwise, under the authority of the Steward, I have today brought hither from Rath Dínin the crown of Ëarnur the last king, whose days passed in the time of our longfathers of old."

Four Men of the Citadel Guard stepped forward then, bearing between them the silver-bound casket of _lebethron _in which Ëarnur's crown had been placed. The Steward Faramir opened the casket and held forth the crown.

Many a time had I seen that crown in King Ëarnur's lifeless grasp, when Father, Faramir and I had visited the House of the Kings in the Silent Street. Yet I confess freely that a shiver raced through me as I beheld it now in the morning's sun, held out before the Man who was to be our king.

The crown is shaped like the helms of the Guards of the Citadel, wrought of white metal and with wings of silver and pearl, with the seven gems upon its circlet and a jewel upon its peak which now caught the sun like flame. It seemed for that instant that in the ancient crown all of Gondor's history stood before us, all of the Kings and the Stewards and the Men of Gondor who had laid down their lives for our country, since the day that Elendil first set his foot upon the shore of this Middle-Earth.

Faramir spoke to Aragorn, "Hold out your hand above the crown of your longfathers, and give answer unto the questions I now ask."

When Aragorn held out his hand, Faramir commenced the coronation oath, sworn by each of Gondor's kings since Eldacar's second crowning in 1447.

"Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of this Kingdom of Gondor, and the dominions thereto belonging, according to the statutes in Council agreed on, and the laws and customs of the same?"

As all the kings since Eldacar's day had answered, Aragorn spoke in his strong and clear tones, "I solemnly promise so to do."

"Will you to your power cause law and justice in mercy to be executed in all your judgements?"

"All this I promise to do."

With a small smile that did nothing to diminish the solemnity of the occasion, Faramir directed him, "Set now your hand upon the crown, and make your vow to the people of Gondor."

His hand upon the crown of Ëarnur, Aragorn faced the assembled multitude and declared, "The things which I have here promised, I will perform and keep. May the Valar give me their aid."

He knelt then, still facing our people. And Faramir the Steward set the White Crown upon his head.

When Aragorn arose, Faramir's voice rang out: "Behold the King!"

The trumpets of the City answered now, all of them as in one voice, with the fanfare for Gondor's king.

In an ordinary coronation the king would have proceeded at this point to enter the City – so we had learned in one never-ending meeting as Húrin of the Keys lectured us on our country's coronation traditions. But Aragorn had told us in that meeting that he wished to address the people once more before passing through the Gate.

He spoke his first words as the crowned King of Gondor: "By the valour and labour of many has this day come to be. There would be no Kingdom of Gondor, no future for Middle-Earth save as a wasteland of slavery and torment, if it were not for the perils and triumphs of four voyagers from a land far distant from Gondor; four Hobbits of the Shire. To Peregrin Took, Meriadoc Brandybuck, Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins the Ringbearer, we owe all the hope that we have upon this morn, and the future of our world. Let them come forward to me now, that the Men of Gondor may look upon those who have saved us, and give to them the praise that is their due."

Both of them blushing furiously, but otherwise controlling their expressions like the stalwart young soldiers they have become, Pippin and Merry stepped forward to Aragorn. Frodo took a step forward, but he paused when he realized that Sam was not following.

The valiant gardener stood with a stunned and wondering expression, like one in a dream. A gentle touch of Mithrandir's hand upon his shoulder somewhat woke him to himself, and he accepted Frodo's proffered hand. Hand in hand the Ringbearer and his esquire walked to join their comrades, standing with the king.

Aragorn smiled at the four of them. Then he cried out to our people, "Praise them with great praise!"

In true gladness of heart I joined with the rest in shouting the halflings' praise.

There came next the moment in our ceremonials which would test to their limits both the self-control and the professional pride of Lord Húrin, the Keeper of the Keys.

It is the duty of his office to preserve our country's traditions, and thus I know he would wish nothing to disrupt the coronation ceremony, just as he had laboured to make our father's funeral flawless, a fortnight before.

But I can only guess at what it must have cost him, holding the opinions that he did, to walk now to the Great Gate of the City, to take the key of _mithril_ that he carried at his belt, and to unlock the Gate.

The Gate swung open through the labours of the guards within. Húrin returned to Aragorn, knelt before him and held out to him the key to the Great Gate of Minas Tirith.

As tradition dictated, Aragorn took the key and held it for a moment, then presented it back to the Keeper of the Keys. Then he reached out to clasp Húrin's shoulders and urge him to his feet.

Húrin's back was to me, so I could not see with what expression the Lord of the Keys answered the understanding and sympathy on Aragorn's face.

The Keeper of the Keys bowed then and stepped back from the King. And the procession began, Aragorn walking for the first time as King into the White City.

It had been another subject of much discussion in one particular meeting, what was the appropriate order for the various officials, followers and allies in the progress up the Hill of Guard. Gladly would I have absented myself from that meeting, as I'd wished I could from many a crucial planning session in those days between the Council's vote and Aragorn's coronation. But my position as Commander of the Citadel Guard, as well as the necessity to show my support for the coming change in regime meant that I'd had no choice but to be there – with my mind involved in this process, at least, if not my heart.

We had, of course, precedents for this sort of thing which had been followed in previous coronations. Our current situation added some complexities in the form of Aragorn's thirty Rangers, for no previous coronation had to factor in a body of Men who could be seen both as foreign troops and as the king's own guard of honour.

I wished I had a building stone in place in Osgiliath for every time we talked our way through the possibilities of who would march behind whom. The politics of our planning was complicated by the presence in that meeting of both Captain Brithnoth of the Citadel Guard, and the leader of Aragorn's troops, by the name of Dírhael - Men who had apparently formed an immediate and fervent dislike for each other.

I suppose that our suffering through that meeting paid off, for as we processed up the hill, all went without a hiccough. Aragorn strode first of all of us, followed, three abreast, by Faramir, Húrin of the Keys, and me. Then followed Prince Imrahil, Éomer King, Lady Éowyn and Elfhelm the Marshal, and after them, as varied an assemblage of foreign dignitaries as had ever graced any Gondorian coronation: the Lords Elladan and Elrohir, Mithrandir, Prince Legolas, Gimli Son of Glóin, and Frodo, Samwise, Merry and Pippin. The leaders of the guilds followed next – and thankfully, they set their own order of march; based, I believe, on the chronological order in which the guilds were founded.

At last there strode the Guards of the Citadel and the Rangers of the north, the two forces marching abreast of each other so there could be no grousing that either body had taken precedence over the other. Bringing up the rear marched the Riders of Rohan, followed by the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth: Imrahil and Éomer having flipped a coin to determine whose troops would be last.

Dírhael of Aragorn's Rangers, naturally, had complained that this order of march separated Aragorn too far from his own troops, and that if, as the Valar forfend, there should be an attempt on his life or other violence against him, his Men should be nearer to him. To this Aragorn had replied that he felt perfectly capable of defending himself. Besides, Aragorn added, he thought he could rest easy in the knowledge that warriors such as the Lords Boromir and Faramir, the Prince of Dol Amroth, the King and the Marshal of Rohan and the lady who slew the Witch-King of Angmar, all would be within sword or spear's reach of him.

Dírhael had subsided, glowering. I sympathized with the Man; if I were the Lieutenant of the northern Rangers, I would not want my Captain so far from me, either. But I sighed to myself at the thought that every future meeting was like to be marked by Dírhael's grousing, and by he and Brithnoth aiming dagger glances at each other.

Fortunately, there proved no need to put Dírhael's pessimism or Aragorn's optimism to the test, in that procession up the Hill of Guard.

The most of the people within the bounds of Rammas Echor on that day were outside the Great Gate. But a company of the City Guard remained in Minas Tirith, posted along the Citadel Road both to honour the King and to provide further security as the procession passed. The majority of these Men cheered lustily as the new King of Gondor strode past them, although one could not avoid noticing the occasional guard whose expression remained stony and whose mouth remained firmly closed. A few of our townspeople also had stayed behind to watch the procession from the streets and from their doorways and balconies. At the Fourth Level I saw old Sergeant Brynjolf, the father of Buslai, leaning up against the wall of a nearby house. He waved his cane in greeting, although knowing Brynjolf, I suspected the greeting was for me, not for the King.

Apparently no past king had the wise idea of decreeing that kings should be free of other official duties on the day of their coronation, as some former Steward had thought of doing for the day of the Steward's investiture. So it was that when the procession reached the Citadel, we who sat as members of the Council continued on into the Tower Hall, for the first Council meeting of King Elessar's reign.

The sight that greeted us set off a muted buzz of whispers amongst many of the Council. For the throne of the King, at Aragorn's order, had been moved to the base of the stairs. It now sat in the circle of the Council, next to the chair of the Steward.

When all had taken their places, and the meeting commenced, Faramir rose from his chair and said, "My Lords, Captains and Masters, there is one matter of business that we must decide before all others. It has been discussed informally in smaller gatherings, but to take effect it must have the vote of the full Council. The suggestion has been made that in our record-keeping from this day forward, it is appropriate to reckon that a new Age has begun. With the fall of Sauron, the destruction of his power and the coronation of our first king in nigh a thousand years, I think that we shall not see again so clear a demarcation line, so obvious a point at which to say that one Age has ended and the next is beginning. I ask that this Council entertain a motion to decree that the Third Age of this Middle Earth ended upon the day that Sauron and his power were destroyed, and that we live now in the first year of the Fourth Age."

Whisper-broken quiet answered him for some moments, then Éomer of Rohan spoke, "I will make such a motion, if the Council will entertain it."

Prince Imrahil added, "And I will stand second to that motion."

No member of the Council spoke when the negative votes were requested, and there was volume enough in the affirmative vote that I think most of the Council must have spoken for it. Some, I am sure, did not speak at all in that vote, of whom I was one.

I cannot say, truly, what impulse it was that made me hold silent. Some vague unease, perhaps, with the notion that _all_ was now new, or a regret at this further reinforcement of the knowledge that we were leaving the days of my father's rule behind us. Perhaps I resisted in the thought that we risked giving insult to the Men and the achievements of our country's past by symbolically distancing ourselves from them with this start of a new Age.

Or perhaps I simply held back in sympathy for our clerks who would now have to re-date all documents that had been written since the end of March, and in the thought of the bureaucratic headache that must ensue from our decision to suddenly count the new year as commencing in March instead of in January.

With the question of our new Age out of the way, the rest of the meeting was for the most part business-like and brisk. It focused largely upon reviewing the progress of the campaign to return our people of the Sunland to their homes. Captain Eradan, a detachment of troops, and a handful of our citizens who lived nearest to Cair Andros, had set forth for the island fortress four days previous. Just the day before, a messenger from Eradan had arrived, confirming previous analyses of the secure conditions in the region. With that word received, we were ready to send out our second detachment of citizens and troops. [Check distances again]

One item of business near the close of the meeting took me by surprise. Aragorn spoke to the Council, "Gentlemen, I thank you for your work on behalf of Gondor, and for your willingness to work with me as one of you. As all of us know, we must labour to meet the needs of the greatest number of our people, as we seek to build Gondor's recovery. Yet while we labour for our people as a whole, I would not see the service and sacrifices of individuals go without honour and thanks.

"In this, my first Council meeting among you, I wish to make a grant from the Crown. I have spoken of it with Lord Húrin of the Keys, and he has the papers prepared. It is my wish to give to the Lord Steward Faramir and the Captain-General Boromir a permanent token of thanks for their deeds on behalf of our country, and for those of their longfathers before them.

"It might be said of our current transition that the office of King is now supplanting the House of the Stewards. I would not have that be so. I would have all Men know that King and Steward both alike are the servants of our country. In one very tangible, practical way, we cannot escape the notion that one is supplanting the other, as we are to be juggling the distribution of offices and quarters in the Citadel. But it would be a poor acknowledgement of their service to our nation, were the return of the King to turn the Steward and the Captain-General from out of their homes. Thus it is my wish to grant to the Sons of Denethor the townhouses in which they now dwell with their households. This grant will be in perpetuity, to all the generations of their lines."

Faramir and I had exchanged a startled frown when Aragorn commenced speaking of us. Now the Lord Steward arose, bowed, and said, "Your Majesty's wish is a gracious and generous one, and you have our thanks for it. Yet mayhap greater discussion is needed before we give away houses which have for millennia been the property of Gondor's government. These townhouses, my brother and I have held in our official capacities as the Steward's Heir and the second son. Before it became tradition for that distribution to be made of them, the two houses were traditionally occupied by sons of the king. I am certain that my brother shares with me a disquiet at the thought that our country's government must lost two such valuable properties merely for the sake of avoiding offence to the two of us. We are soldiers, both of us; if there is need for it, we can dwell equally well in quarters in the Citadel, in barracks, or in tents upon the Pelennor Field."

"It is so indeed," said I. "I know full well, as must every member of this Council, that there are many thousands of our people whose housing needs are more pressing by far than those of the Steward and myself."

"It is not a question of what you _can_ do, My Lords," countered Aragorn, "but of what should be done. We do not doubt that you can sleep in barracks, in tents, or on the open ground; I have seen you do that myself. But when this nation has an opportunity to give some lasting sign of thanks to you and your family, I ask of you both that you allow us to do so."

The debate continued for some minutes more, but it ended in the resolution – moved by my old comrade Captain Cirion of the Anórien Rangers, and seconded by Guildleader Ivarr of the Orc's Head Tavern – that the Council should approve this grant by the King.

The objections raised by Faramir were perfectly valid. But I cannot deny that I felt gratitude and some relief at the way the discussion ended.

I would be glad, I thought, not to have to disrupt the people of my household. And it is undeniably pleasant to know that one will not be required to step aside gracefully and give away one's home.

Now, I told myself with a high degree of ruefulness, I would just have to hope that the Lady Éowyn or eventually some other lady accepted my offer of marriage, so I could set about seeing to it that I _had_ a line to inherit the townhouse in perpetuity.

I was glad not to be the Steward – a thought that I found frequently occurring to me – that day when the Council meeting concluded. Faramir's next duty was to tour the Citadel with Aragorn, and to oversee, as Aragorn had described it, "juggling the distribution of offices and quarters in the Citadel."

We had already agreed amongst ourselves that the King should have the suite of office and chambers in the King's House that were formerly occupied by the Stewards – but that had, as the name of the building implied, been occupied by the kings before them. The Steward would retain the office in the White Tower. For personal quarters in the Citadel, Faramir would take what had been my rooms in the King's House.

There were plenty of guest quarters in the King's House that would have been available to me, had I wished them. But that offer I declined. My townhouse, after all, is only two levels removed from the Citadel. I no longer have a father who requires me to keep quarters from which I may be summoned on an instant's notice. In almost every conceivable circumstance, the two levels between Citadel and townhouse should be close enough.

Faramir's wan smile as he assured Aragorn that he had no difficulty with giving up the suite in the King's House, had told me how relieved he was not to have to face taking up residence himself in those quarters that had belonged to our father.

So now Faramir, Aragorn and attendants set about their tour of the Citadel, and I was free to return to work with the Office of Re-Housing. Free, that is, until we were all required to convene again for the Coronation Ball.

I thought, as I crossed the courtyard that evening with Pippin hastening at my side, how strange and unfamiliar it felt to see the doors of Merethrond the Hall of Feasting flung open, and brilliant light spilling out from every door and window.

It was not that we'd had no celebrations held here during my lifetime; far from it. But the years that had elapsed since the last ball held in Merethrond had been ones of such turmoil and such darkness, that at times it seemed they had been decades instead of merely seven years. I felt, as I thought of it, that the last court ball had taken place in what was _truly_ a different Age; an Age separated from our present days by far more than simply a declaration of the Council that the Fourth Age had begun.

Pippin whistled softly as we stepped into the banquet hall. He murmured, "Now there is something to write home about."

And indeed the brilliance of the vision before us was such as to almost hurt the eyes, with every torch in every brazier lit, with the _mithril _and gold and gems on the roof-beams casting back the torches' light, and with the assembled worthies of Gondor and her allies clad with such richness as to rival the radiance of the hall itself.

A glance around the great hall sufficed to show me Aragorn, standing near the room's northern end. There had been no difficulty in locating him, for it seemed that most of the crowd in the hall were watching him, whether openly or with frequent, unconvincingly casual glances in his direction. The King was talking with Lord Húrin of the Keys and his fair sister. I thought I saw Aragorn laugh – politely, no doubt – at something the lady had said to him, and I had to grin. I thought that likely this was a bit of Húrin's revenge on Aragorn for being crowned king, that he should introduce our new monarch to his acid-tongued wit of a sister – who doubtless shared her brother's opinion on the kingship, and who would have no hesitation at telling Aragorn so, at length.

Near Aragorn I saw Mithrandir, Faramir, Elladan and Elrohir, as well as two individuals whom I did not recognize, who stood talking with my brother, the Wizard, and the twin Elven Lords. One was a Man in much simpler garb than all of those about him, looking as out of place as if some woodcutter had been plucked from out of his cottage and deposited in the middle of the coronation ball. The other was slim and gold-haired, clad in the vivid green of a forest pool turned emerald by the afternoon sun. I could not be certain at this distance, but something in this stranger's bearing made me think that he was probably an Elf.

Also standing near Aragorn I saw Éomer King and the lady his sister. She, I thought, stood out from those about her just as surely as did Aragorn, the silver of her gown not more radiant than her gleaming cascade of hair. Éowyn was speaking with a tall, broomstick-thin lady recognizable by her height as the wife of Master Athelhelm of the Carters' Guild. I smiled as I imagined the politely glazed look that was likely to be on Éowyn's face, if the interest level of the conversations I had endured with the wife of Athelhelm was anything to go by.

Across the banqueting hall from us, along the west wall, were set the tables of food and drink. Unsurprisingly, it was on these that Pippin's gaze settled. The menu that had been decided upon for this night was simple and restrained compared to the fare at most of the events that had graced this hall, as befitted this time when Gondor must be rebuilt in the wake of devastating war. But the cooks of the Citadel still had prepared a feast that did justice to their art and should ensure that none here went hungry – even with four healthy Hobbits among our number.

The three other Hobbits, I noticed, were already standing beside one of those tables, with precariously heavy-laden plates in their hands. They were talking with Legolas and Gimli. I pointed them out to Pippin, "There are the others. Let us join them – after, of course, paying our respects to Aragorn."

"Yes," said Master Peregrin, with a broad and grateful grin, "let's."

We made our way through the crowd toward Aragorn, I having to stop along the way to exchange greetings with multiple officers and guild leaders, their families, and various other dignitaries. With soldierly self-control, Pippin forced himself to remain at my side and not make a headlong foray at the food table.

The King greeted both of us warmly in reply to our bows and greetings. Bowing and saying, "Please excuse me for a moment," to Húrin of the Keys and his sister, Aragorn turned and beckoned to the green-clad stranger I had noticed earlier – who, I saw now, was most definitely an Elf.

"Boromir," said Aragorn, as this newcomer walked over to us, "you remember Lord Glorfindel, from Imladris?"

As we shook hands and made polite comments to each other, I realized that I did in fact remember this Elven Lord. I recalled him from the high table in Lord Elrond's hall, and from that interminable council of war at which was hatched the plan to destroy the One Ring. He also had been the one who showed me the way to Elrond's library the first time I visited it, when I made those stacks of research notes for Faramir that were now presumably somewhere lost in the woods of Amon Hen.

Lord Glorfindel knelt down to greet and shake hands with Pippin. Meantime, my attention was caught by another group standing nearby.

The other newcomer I had seen when we arrived, the Man in the workaday clothes, was currently surrounded by a crowd of awe-struck youngsters: Boromir the Son of Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers' Guild, and several other youthful sons of the guild leaders. The Man was relating to them some tale, perhaps the story of his travels, and the boys listened in avid wonder.

"I'll introduce you to our other guest later," Aragorn remarked to me. "It would be a pity to interrupt them."

I think that Pippin had managed to keep himself from fidgeting as he stood at my side. But unsurprisingly, Aragorn seemed fully aware of where the young Hobbit most longed to be. He said, "Master Peregrin, I look to you to confirm whether the fare set out for our guests meets the exacting standards of the people of the Shire."

"Gladly, Your Majesty," said Pippin, with another bow. The Hobbit added, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "May I borrow Boromir from you, so he can plough for me a path through the crowd?"

"Gladly granted," the King answered. Aragorn then commented to Húrin and his sister the Lady Arianrhod, who'd been listening fairly nonplussed to this conversation, "Lord Boromir has plenty of experience ploughing a path for our comrades the halflings. He and I spent one memorable afternoon serving as snowploughs on the mountain of Caradhras."

"Fortunately," said I, "ploughing a way through this crowd should result in a good deal less snow in my boots and down my neck."

When at last we reached our destination at the food tables, young Took hastily greeted our comrades and then still managed to make himself ask, "Can I get you anything, Boromir?"

"No, no, thank you," I assured him. "Please, help yourself."

With a quick grin, he did just that. Meanwhile, as I exchanged greetings with our friends, I could not help but notice that something more seemed to have transpired with Legolas and Gimli beyond simply their happiness at seeing Aragorn crowned king. The Elf and the Dwarf both seemed buoyed with delight, as though they could scarce keep their feet planted upon the ground.

I did not have long to wonder at the cause of this joy, for Legolas said, "I received a letter from my father today, Boromir, and Gimli has heard from his father. Lord Glorfindel arrived also this afternoon from the Lord Elrond, with letters for Elladan and Elrohir, and for Aragorn. There have been mighty battles in our homelands. When Sauron sent his attack against Gondor and massed his troops at the Black Gate, he also sent forces north against our lands. But the victories have been ours. My father writes to me that our forests have suffered much destruction by fire, but in the end we have routed the foe. He tells me that none of our close kin fell in the battle, although we did lose many comrades."

His face was briefly shadowed by trouble as he spoke those words, but he hastened onward. "There was fighting also at the edge of the Golden Wood, but there, too, the people of Lórien were victorious. My father writes that in the wake of the battles he met with Celeborn and Galadriel, concluded a treaty with them and divided with them the lands of the forests formerly held by the Enemy."

Legolas grinned, shook his head and added, "Victory must have mellowed my father. In the past he has had scant patience for meeting with other leaders. I think it irks him to be forced to acknowledge that anyone holds power and authority besides himself."

The Elf continued with a bit of a rueful grimace, "It was from Galadriel and Celeborn that my father learned where to write to me, and for that I think I cannot entirely thank them. At least half of his missive was spent upon taking me to task for being away from home for six months and not bothering to write to him. I wrote to him before we left Imladris, mind, but apparently that was not good enough. I suppose," went on Legolas with heavy sarcasm, "I should have stopped to write a letter to him in the midst of shooting _Nazgûl_ at Sarn Gebir, or perhaps I should have asked that a warrior of Gondor be sent to him with my regards while we were marching to the Black Gate!"

I smiled. I thought of how the Elven prince's complaints matched the thoughts that had come to me near the end of my journey home, when I worried over what my father might say about the length of time I'd been gone without sending him word. Then my smile broadened, for a theory came to me that explained Gimli's particular buoyancy of mood.

Hearing from his father doubtless had something to do with it. But I was willing to bet that the gladness of heart which radiated from him owed more to the fact that King Thranduil's letter to Legolas brought word that the Lady Galadriel was alive and well.

I held back a chuckle, and forcibly compelled myself not to tease our Dwarven friend over his schoolboy adoration for the Lady of the Golden Wood. Instead I merely asked him, "And you, friend Gimli? What word have you received from your father?"

"Not such good tidings as from the lands of the Elves, I suppose," he answered, "but thank the Valar, for me they are good enough. All of our close family have come through without serious hurt. The Dark Lord sent forces both against our people and against the Men who dwell thereabouts. Both our King Dáin and King Brand of the Men of Dale were slain."

"By all the gods," I exclaimed, "I am sorry to hear of that."

Grimly Gimli nodded, then he went on. "As you may suppose, that set both Dwarves and Men into disarray. Our two peoples, all who could be gathered together, took refuge in Erebor, and there we were besieged. But when news came to the Enemy's forces of the Dark Lord's fall and their routing at the Black Gate, then, my father says, it was their turn to be thrown into confusion. Under our new kings, Thorin Dáin's Son and Bard the Son of Brand, the Dwarves of Erebor and the Men of Dale came forth and put the troops of the Enemy to the axe and the sword."

With a smile of wonderment and a shake of his head, the Son of Glóin observed, "It is not only among the Fellowship of Nine that our perils have formed strange comradeships. Here a Dwarf rides a-horseback with an Elf, and both here and in Erebor, Dwarves now fight as shield-brothers to Men. Your Council was not wrong today when they declared this to be a new Age. Although," he added, with a sidelong glance at Legolas, "I must say I am still happier to be Dwarf than Elf. _My_ father didn't say a word about how long it's been since I wrote to him."

Legolas rolled his eyes, and said, "Thank you, friend Dwarf, for rubbing that in."

"Don't worry, Legolas," said Pippin, as he allowed himself a pause in making serious inroads on the contents of his plate. "You're not alone, anyway. My father's bound to give me a serious talking-to when I get home, for all this gallivanting around with Wizards and Men and all sorts without so much as a word or a by-your-leave. His father will, too," he added, jerking a thumb at Merry.

As I remembered him doing some weeks before, Merry again had a surprising reaction to talk of going home to the Shire. He scowled and said testily, "He may at that, Peregrin Took, if I ever go back."

Pippin regarded him in startlement. But before the conversation could go further along that path, the voice of the King drew the attention of all assembled.

"My Lords, Ladies and Masters," spoke Aragorn. "I thank all of you for being here tonight. Many of you I know already, or I have had the honour to recently meet. Those of you whom I have not yet met, I ask that you not leave tonight before I have the opportunity to speak with you.

"I will not burden you now with any lengthy speech, for I am certain that we have all heard speeches aplenty. Yet of one thing I will take the opportunity to tell you. This afternoon we have received word from other kingdoms which have, like Gondor, been fighting for their lives against the Dark. Here is Ruardri Son of Bran," he said, indicating the Man about whom I'd thought that he looked like a woodcutter, "who comes to us as emissary of King Thorin of the Dwarves of Erebor and King Bard of the Men of Dale. They are neighboring kingdoms to the north, that at times have been each other's enemies and rivals. But both faced invasion by the Dark Lord's armies, even as did Gondor. Dwarves and Men made common cause, and they have come through this war as allies, and victorious.

Aragorn continued, "Here also is Lord Glorfindel, the emissary of Lord Elrond Half-Elven, who brings to us tidings from Imladris and from Lothlórien, the Land of the Golden Wood." As he indicated the fair-haired Elven Lord, a rustle of whispers spread throughout the crowd. That was no surprise. I suppose that apart from Faramir and myself, nearly all of the people of Gondor must think of such places as Imladris and Lothlórien as locations known only in fairy tales. Aragorn announcing that a visitor had come from there, was just about as though he had said that he was standing next to an emissary from Númenor.

"They also have endured grievous battles in this war, and they also have fought their way to victory. Lord Glorfindel and Master Ruardri stand with us now in symbol of the future of friendship and alliance that I pray is before us all. As we have shed our blood together in the fight against he who would have destroyed all of us, so let us seek our common good in this dawning day of peace.

"People of Gondor, I ask that you extend to these gentlemen all the welcome of our country. And perhaps," he added with a smile, "if our visitors be so inclined, some of the gracious ladies of this court might be willing to extend to them the privilege of a dance." With that, the King gave a nod to the leader of the court musicians, who had been awaiting his word in the upper gallery of the hall.

As the musicians struck up a tune preparatory to the first dance, I thought that Lord Glorfindel and Ruardri Son of Bran would have no shortage of dancing partners. The Elven emissary, as well as Lords Elladan and Elrohir, were quite literally mobbed by fascinated young ladies of the court, and indeed by many not-so-young. Ruardri of the Men of Dale might not have the mysterious appeal of the Elven Lords, but there was still the excitement of the new and the foreign about him. He, too, soon disappeared from my sight behind a formidable wall of ladies.

I grinned to myself as I thought, _Better him than me_.

I had exaggerated to Aragorn, the day before, my despair at the prospect of being expected to dance. The truth of the matter was that neither Faramir nor I were at much peril from that. As the acknowledged suitors of Lady Éowyn of Rohan, she alone would be dancing with either of us this night.

I still would not count dancing among the skills at which I feel most adept. But the prospect of dancing with Éowyn was far less off-putting than being threatened with an entire court full of eligible damsels.

Since Aragorn would not dance on this night due to the absence of his betrothed – a fact which all of the pages in attendance at the ball had been instructed to mention to any matrons or other guardians who arrived with marriageable maidens in tow – it fell to Faramir and Éowyn to lead the first dance of the evening.

As I watched them walk arm-in-arm to the dance floor, with many another couple following behind them, I had both to sigh and to smile.

There was no denying that they made the most handsome of couples. I admitted to myself that it looked very right to see them together thus. For a moment I wished that I had never asked to court Éowyn, and that Faramir's courtship had no such potential impediment in its way as the rival courtship of his brother.

And yet I would be speaking far from the truth did I deny that I looked forward eagerly to my own opportunity to dance with the lady, all my grousing about dancing notwithstanding. And I thought that, without permitting myself too much undue vanity, there was every likelihood that Éowyn and I made just as handsome a couple as did Éowyn and Faramir.

It would not do for me to seem to be watching the two of them too closely as the dance progressed. But neither did I want to burden myself with a plate or goblet, since I would be expected to partner Éowyn in the next dance.

Instead I asked Legolas and Gimli to tell me more of the battles in their homelands. I was occupied with this, and with a few additional parenthetical complaints by Legolas about the scolding in his father's letter, until the first dance drew to its end.

I had positioned myself near the spot where Faramir and Éowyn would be when the dance closed. When Faramir escorted the lady to my side, the bright eyes and rosy faces of both of them proclaimed that this dance had been a success.

Fortunately, the second dance was of the type that involves each couple in turn making a lengthy promenade between the lines of the other dancers. For as long as you are not among the couple making the promenade, these dances tend to be deathly dull. But for as long as your turn at the promenade lasts, it gives the occasion for some uninterrupted conversation with your dancing partner.

It was for Éowyn and me to be the leading couple in this promenade. She it was who began the conversation, though when she spoke it was in a manner that I would never in the least have expected. Smiling she asked me, in gracious tones that sounded truly odd against the bluntness of her words, "Tell me, My Lord: do you find that dancing tends to make you feel like an utter ass?"

I grinned and was hard-pressed not to laugh, which of course would have been far from appropriate in the middle of the dance. "Aye, Lady," I said, "I tend to find that indeed. With, of course, the greatest of respect to you, it is fair to say that I would rather by far have a sword in my grasp than the hand of a dancing-partner."

"Aye," she said. "So also would I. Sorely did I grudge it when I was compelled to learn dancing as a child, although I suppose I did prefer it to the needlepoint. And," she added with a sudden grin, "it did have a consequence that my parents never intended. It was when I was in open rebellion, flatly declaring that I would not learn to dance, that my brother staved off a family war by secretly promising me that he would teach me swordplay – as I had been pestering him to do for years."

"I see, then," I said, "that dancing does have its uses. I am glad to know that it has served at least one other purpose besides making me feel that I am as graceful as a mûmak."

Further extended conversation became unfeasible then, for we had reached the point in the dance at which we had to return to our places in the rows of dancers.

As I smiled at her, across from me in the row of ladies, the thought came to me that I would be very sorry indeed if she did not accept my proposal of marriage.

_She is a wonder, _I thought. _She must assuredly be unique among women. How likely is it that you will find another lady whose opinions and yours are so entirely in agreement?_

Then I wanted to chuckle at myself, as I recognized that for the self-deluding thought that it was. I told myself it was a fool's part to imagine that the lady and I agreed on everything.

_It is only_, I thought, _that those topics on which you agree are the ones on which she chooses to comment. When your words or actions are such as to confirm for her a belief in the irredeemable stupidity of Men, she is simply gracious enough not to mention it._

The first portion of that evening went off without a hitch.

I sampled some of the fare of the citadel cooks. I had the honour, in my turn, of another dance with Éowyn – this a dance of far more energetic type, involving much clapping and bowing and kneeling while the lady twirls about one, and so providing little chance for conversation. I made my way through numerous other conversations with the ball's attendees, miraculously without finding myself trapped in speech with anyone particularly boring.

I had been speaking with Lord Glorfindel of the battles in which he'd taken part when Sauron made his strike against the Elven realms. Then the music for a new dance commenced, and Arianrhod the sister of Húrin prevailed upon the Elf Lord to escort her in the dance.

I wondered how long it would be before I might seek another dance with Éowyn.

By etiquette, I could not claim another dance with the lady until Faramir again had danced with her. That might be some time in coming, for I caught sight of Faramir near the north end of the hall, apparently deep in discussion with Éomer of Rohan. From the serious expression on Faramir's face, some matter other than light party conversation occupied their attention.

I sighed a little as my gaze wandered over that glittering throng.

Left on my own for that moment, it was only too easy to let my thoughts drift to other, similar nights. Similar, and yet different in almost every way.

The last court ball held in Minas Tirith had been at the Yule in the first year of Faramir's marriage. As clearly as though it were enacted before me in some magical vision, I could see that gathering in the place of this one. I could see the vibrant happiness that had been on the faces of Faramir and his Éoflæd on that night. And I could see the quieter enjoyment, tinged with exhaustion, on the face of Théodhild, for she had been then seven months pregnant with Findemir.

There had been no such revels in our court after that. The threat from Mordor drew in, leaving less and less time for celebration, and perhaps still less cause. And less than three years after that Yuletide ball, Théodhild, Éoflæd and Findemir had died.

My glance fell on two of the groups of children who were racing about the hall. One band of them was playing blind man's bluff, the players including Ivarr Son of Yngvar's youngest daughter Melilot and one of her two older sisters, the sons of Master Eppa of the Stonemasons' Guild, and, I was very happy to see, my young assistant Bergil Son of Beregond. Nearby, Ivarr's eldest daughter was keeping an eye on a gaggle of children who were barely out of babyhood, and whose delight was in running along the polished floor at the greatest possible speed and squealing. But the duty did not seem too onerous for her, for young Boromir Son of Rađobard was keeping her company, had brought her a plate of assorted delicacies, and seemed to be blushing every time he spoke to her.

I sighed again, thinking of how Findemir would have joyed to be among those children running through the great hall of Merethrond. I imagined his laughter and his squeals of excitement joining with theirs.

Before I could descend too far into melancholy, a welcome voice at my shoulder interrupted my reveries. The owner of the voice had correctly divined the mood that had settled upon me, for Uncle Imrahil said, "You have the look, Nephew, of a Man who requires the unfailing wit of his favourite uncle to cheer him up."

I grinned at him. "You are always welcome, Uncle," I said. "You are always welcome, and at most times I can stomach your unfailing wit, too."

Imrahil had not arrived on his cheering-up mission alone. At his side were Pippin, Frodo and Sam. Pippin spoke up now, "You can blame me, Boromir, if you're not in the mood for his wit. I'm the one who said we should come over and talk with you. Were you far away in place just now, or in time? Or both?"

"In time, my friend," I answered him. "It is too easy on evenings such as this to think of other nights long gone. And of the revellers who were here on those nights, who now are gone from us."

"That is true enough," my uncle agreed. "But thankfully, it is not only the pang of loss that our memories can bring to us. I, too, was thinking of another night of revelries in this hall; a night that may do something to dispel your melancholy. I was thinking," he went on, with the smug grin of the cat with the cream, "of the previous time that you and our new Lord King attended the same ball in the Hall of Feasts."

"Very well, Uncle, very well," I laughed, "you have succeeded in your quest for a cryptic utterance that I will have no choice but to ask you to explain. Tell me then, My Lord Prince. How in blazes is it that Aragorn and I have attended the same ball here, when the last time he sojourned in our lands I was a babe in arms?"

"A babe in arms you were," Prince Imrahil grinned, "and therein lies the crux of my tale."

"A tale, a tale!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Pippin, while the other two Hobbits smiled in more restrained enjoyment. "Go on, My Lord! It's never a real party without story-telling."

Imrahil bowed to the three halflings, and to me. "It is not that much of a tale, I fear, my good friends," he said to the Hobbits. "In truth it is probably more of an anecdote, and I fear my story-telling techniques will not be up to Hobbit standards. But perhaps the anecdote may at least bring a smile to Lord Boromir's face." With amusement sparkling in the prince's eyes, he began.

"It was the Yuletide feast in the 25th year of the Steward Ecthelion's reign. Boromir was then eight months or so of age. His Lord father – as perhaps you can imagine, Master Peregrin – was never a Man who took the greatest of enjoyment in parties. Polite and smiling though he would force himself to be, one usually had the impression that he would rather far be in his study reading the latest reports from the Marches – or facing the foe at the head of the troops in the Marches himself.

"But in Boromir's early years, the Lord Denethor was not _quite_ so averse to parties. I will warrant that almost any Man with a beauteous and gracious wife and a strapping baby son will take joy in showing off both of them on any occasion he can, and Denethor was no exception to that rule.

"Then, also, Boromir was the first child to grace the Steward's family since Denethor himself was a child. In those circumstances, it should be no wonder if all eyes were upon our young scion of the Stewards that night. You can imagine that almost every lady in the court was vying for the chance to cuddle him, let him chew on their fingers, and to say 'coochie, coochie, coo,' to him – every lady and no small number of the gentlemen."

Pippin grinned up at me. "I suppose that's why you're not the life of the party now, Boromir. You had enough of it to last you your lifetime when you were still just a little one."

"I can party well enough, Master Halfling," I countered, grinning back. "It is only that I prefer my partying when I am not in full dress uniform and standing about like a stuffed peacock in the eye of all the court."

Imrahil went on, "I think the only thing that dimmed Lord Denethor's enjoyment even slightly was the fact that Captain Thorongil – whom we know now as Aragorn – was here also on that night; he who just before that time had become, to all intents and purposes, the third-in-command of all the forces of Gondor. But even Thorongil's presence had little power to quell Denethor's spirits. Looking back, I believe Denethor did not yet then know the truth of Thorongil's identity. To him at that Yule, I think the foreign captain was merely a Man for whom he felt some dislike and mistrust – not one whom he suspected of posing a threat to the rule of the House of Húrin."

Pippin nodded, looking as though he could easily picture the scene on that night. Sam looked frankly unhappy and Frodo frowned in troubled thought. Both of them, I suppose, were mulling this view of Aragorn that they had not previously encountered.

For my part, I thought that Imrahil was being eminently fair in his reconstruction of my father's probable thoughts. My uncle is not one who can know a Man for nigh on forty-five years without gaining for him considerable understanding and sympathy.

The Prince said, "It was drawing near the time when Boromir's nursemaid had decreed he must be put to bed. Under the good damsel's watchful eye, a few more of the court took turns at cooing over the little fellow. It was a measure of Lord Denethor's good mood on that evening that he did not even make any biting comments when Captain Thorongil asked for the honour of holding the baby.

"Mayhap," Imrahil continued, "Denethor's foreknowing had shown him a glimpse of what was to come. For what happened next was doubtless his most treasured gift of that Yuletide season. It was while Thorongil was bouncing young Boromir and giving him some advice on military strategy that the scion of the Stewards commenced to throw up his daymeal upon the captain's tunic."

I laughed in surprise. So, too, did all three Hobbits, although Frodo and Sam then both looked a little embarrassed at having done so.

"I believe," mused my uncle, "that the grin upon Denethor's face at that sight was the broadest I have ever seen him grin. Thorongil returned the boy to the arms of his doting father and excused himself to change his tunic. The captain returned shortly after, none the worse for his experience, but his return did nothing to dampen Lord Denethor's jubilant humour. Denethor insisted on carrying his son for the rest of the evening, over-rode the nursemaid's protestations of bedtime, and enthused to all who would listen upon his son's remarkable intelligence and the fact that the boy was already such a discerning judge of character."

"I can see it all!" exclaimed Pippin. "What colour was Strider's tunic?"

"Something dark, as I recall," answered Imrahil. "Something ideally designed to show off the vomit of a person whose diet consists primarily of milk."

"It is terrible," said Frodo, smiling and shaking his head. "We should not be laughing."

"I do not think you do our king any disservice by doing so," said the prince. "He was gracious about it at the time, and I doubt he holds any grudge for the incident forty-odd years later."

"Uncle," I said, feeling that I must be grinning almost as broadly as my father had done on that night forty years before, "I thank you for this, from the depths of my heart. I will treasure your tale over all the days to come. If, as the Valar forfend, there should come any moment when I find myself aggrieved at some word or action of the King, I need only picture my baby vomit upon his shoulder, and my good humour will be restored."

"My nephew," said Imrahil, with a flourishing bow, "I am delighted to have been of service."

We were standing fairly near to the food tables, and several of the Pages of the Citadel were just then hastening about replenishing the platters. I noticed as first Pippin, then Samwise and finally Frodo started watching the young Men's activities, the Hobbits' gazes lingering wistfully upon the creations of the Citadel's kitchens.

I said to them, "Gentlemen, you have the look of revellers who require something more of sustenance."

The three of them spoke at once, Pippin saying, "We shouldn't, really …," Sam contributing, "Well, now that you mention it …," and Frodo stating, "We've had a lot already."

"You've not had so much, I am certain," I said, "that you need feel any hesitation about helping yourselves to more. Just this morn all of Minas Tirith cheered your praises – the praises that you so richly deserve. I am sure we have not been 'praising you with great praise' only to turn around and deny you the offerings of our tables."

They nobly hesitated a moment longer, but the food was exerting its magnetic pull upon their Hobbit stomachs. I said, to settle the question, "I will have a bit more myself, if you care to join me. Are you coming too, Uncle?"

"Gladly," smiled the Prince Imrahil. "I have my eye on one of those Tumladen hens with the grape stuffing."

Thus we five made our way to the tables. Imrahil indeed headed for the Tumladen hens, while the Hobbits unsurprisingly descended upon a heaped platter of stuffed mushrooms. I was just pondering whether I should make straight for the wine, when a fragment of overheard conversation arrested me in my tracks.

Young Dervorin of Ringló Vale was standing across the table from me, chatting with a young Man whom I thought might be a son of Master Minastan of the Weavers' and Tailors' Guild. Dervorin remarked to his comrade, "Her warrior prowess is not her only attraction! Did you know she has three suitors, now? I just heard it. As if the Steward and his brother were not enough, now she's got the halfling Meriadoc courting her, too."

With an airy laugh the other young Man quipped, "Doesn't that make it just two and a half suitors, then?"

"I suppose you're right, at that," Dervorin began. Then I took a step closer to the table and the young lord noticed me, as I aimed a furious glare in his direction.

"My Lord!" gasped Dervorin, while the other youth backed several steps away and attempted to look unconnected to the conversation. "Your pardon, sir, I did not see you there."

"That much is obvious," I snapped. "Allow me to inform you that you are in error, young Man. Meriadoc Brandybuck is not courting the Lady Éowyn. He is Esquire to her brother, and the King of Rohan has seconded him to her service. If you have observed him in her company, that is why."

Dervorin was blushing scarlet. "My Lord," he stammered, "I do ask your pardon, but I fear the halfling is indeed courting the Lady of Rohan. I chanced to be nearby when he asked her Lord brother's permission to be her suitor, just a few moments past, and I could not help but overhear."

I stared at him, my expression likely as blank as my mind felt. "You are joking," was all that I managed to say. "You must have misheard."

"No," came a cold, flat voice from behind me. "It is not a joke. He did not mishear."

I turned to see Meriadoc Brandybuck standing a few feet away from me. He fixed me with a look of icy rage that seemed bizarrely unfamiliar upon his familiar face. Only then, far too late, did I realize that Pippin was standing next to me and had been desperately tugging at my sleeve. Doubtless he'd been trying to save me from blundering into the disaster that I had just landed myself in.

"Merry!" I floundered lamely. "I am sorry. I did not know—"

"No," was his bitter retort, "I am sorry. I am sorry I imagined that the perils we've endured together might make you take me seriously. I'm sorry I dreamed that any of the race of Men might think a mere halfling worthy of respect."

"Merry!" I exclaimed again, horrified. "For the gods' sakes, that is not what I meant! I did not say _you_ are a joke. I thought this young Man was jesting, that is all; but I see he was not, and I am very sorry for offending you—"

"No," he furiously shot back, "what right have I to be offended? I am only a halfling. I can fight for Rohan and Gondor, I can set my life at hazard for people who think nothing of me, but gods forbid I might be taken seriously as a suitor for the White Lady. Anyone so short as I am, must be only a child!"

"Damnation, no," I insisted. I took a step toward him, but I stopped before trying to put my hand on his shoulder when I saw the venom of his glare. "Damn it, no, Merry, it is not like that! I made a stupid comment without thinking. Indict me for stupidity if you like, but do not think that I under-value you. I know your worth is as great as that of any Man of Gondor or Rohan. Never would I knowingly demean you or cause to you any hurt."

I thought that his fury seemed to ease a little, but not nearly so much as I desperately wished it to do. "After all," he said quietly, "it is my fault. It is my fault for thinking that Men could ever see a Hobbit as their equal. Of course you do not mean to hurt me. You would never mean to hurt your horses or your dogs, either. But neither would you accept a horse or a dog as a suitor for the Lady of Rohan."

"Master Meriadoc."

The voice that interrupted my attempt to make further protest was Éowyn's, as chilly and authoritative as I have ever heard her. She had walked up a few paces behind Merry. As he and I turned to face her, she fixed us with her icy gaze as though we both were the children that Merry had claimed all Men believe Hobbits to be.

It occurred to me that if we were able to hold our gazes steady, under her scrutiny – as I succeeded in doing, and I am certain that Merry did as well – then we were both indeed worthy to be considered her suitors.

"Master Meriadoc," she said again now, "I would have speech with you. I ask your pardon, Lord Boromir, for interrupting your discussion. My Lord brother," she continued imperiously to Éomer, who was standing near her looking horrified and rather ill, "Master Meriadoc and I will require attendants, if you can spare any of your Men."

"Of course," Éomer managed to croak out. He nodded to two nearby Riders of Rohan, and they stepped forward to the White Lady and stood at attention. In a gesture more commanding than inviting, she held out her hand to Merry.

With dignity, and without another glance at me, the Hobbit strode to her side and bowed to her. He formally held out his arm to her, and she – not quite tall enough that she would have to stoop in order to place her arm upon his and her hand atop his hand – accepted the offer of his arm.

The two of them walked from the Hall of Feasts to the courtyard, with their Rohirrim attendants hastening behind.

As they passed out of earshot, Éomer King exclaimed seemingly to no one in particular, "Now you see why we insist on the lady's guardian being the first to inform all suitors of any rival suit!"

Bowing stiffly to him, I said, "I ask your pardon, Lord Éomer, for the disturbance I have caused and for any embarrassment I may have brought to your House."

Meanwhile, my Uncle Imrahil was giving a dressing-down to the unfortunate Dervorin of Ringló Vale. The young lord's companion in the original conversation that led us to this debacle had long since disappeared into the crowd.

"Do you see what trouble your chatter has caused, you young idiot?" Imrahil berated Dervorin. "Perhaps this will teach you to keep a respectful tongue in the future! I am sure your father will be delighted to hear of this incident. Shall we find him now and tell him of his son's latest achievement? I am much mistaken in Lord Kirilhir if he brought you up to gossip like any fishwife!"

"I humbly ask your pardon, My Lord Prince; Lord Boromir; My Lords and Masters;" managed Dervorin.

For my part, I could take no comfort in the lad's apology or in his discomfiture. This disaster might have come about through his agency, but it was I who had planted myself in it, with both feet.

Bitterly I said to the three remaining Hobbits and my uncle, "If you will excuse me, gentlemen. I believe I should make my departure now instead of waiting to learn how many other friendships I can destroy in one night."

I had not far to seek, to find the other Man to whom I must offer my regrets. Aragorn had noticed our argument, as, indeed, he could scarcely have failed to do. He stood now just behind the Hobbits, watching me, as were they, with a worried and helpless expression.

"My Lord," I said, bowing to him. "I apologize for the disruption of your evening, and I request your leave to retire for the night."

He said, "I grant that leave gladly. Is there anything I can do to be of help?"

"Unless your kingly powers include the ability to turn back time by a few minutes, then, no, Sire. Sadly, I fear there is not."

I bowed once more and strode from the Hall of Feasts, cursing the combination of fate and my own stupidity that seemed determined to rend asunder the friendships I valued most in Middle Earth.

_My gods, there is irony for you, _I thought, as I barged my way through the Courtyard of the White Tree. _Frodo has forgiven me for all-but killing him and attempting to destroy his quest, but I'll wager Merry will not find it so easy a task to forgive me this grievous wound to his pride._

With Frodo, I had only sought to take from him the chance to save our world. I had not struck at the heart of his most cherished hopes and his image of himself.

Storming along the familiar pathways, and vouchsafing little speech for the guards at the Citadel Gate or the people of my household, I did not stop until I stood upon the balcony of my townhouse chambers and had slammed the door shut behind me. Then I slumped down to the carven bench and glowered unseeingly at the lights of the White City.

It was with little thought that I sat there, only with an all-too-familiar feeling of self-loathing. I would probably have sat thus all the night, if I had not been interrupted. But an hour or so into that vigil, someone rapped at the balcony door. Without waiting for an answer from me, my brother opened the door and stepped through.

"I thought I might find you here," he said. "It was either here or at the top of the White Tower. It's a shorter walk to get here, so I thought I'd try this first."

Gesturing for him to sit by me on the bench, I greeted him with, "Have you come to inform me of the depths of my stupidity? I am doing quite well enough telling myself of that, so you don't need to bother."

"So I presumed," said Faramir as he sat down. "Which is why I've not come to tell you anything of the sort."

Girding myself to face whatever he might tell me, I asked, "Have you spoken with Merry since this started?"

"Only very briefly, and not directly of this. With his new standing, of course he cannot remain as esquire to Lady Éowyn, or continue to share her quarters. He could move to the Rohirrim barracks. But if truth be told, I think Éomer fears he might suffer some abuse from a few of their less tolerant Riders, who might think him not a fitting suitor for the White Lady. So Éomer and Merry came to Aragorn and me, to formally request other housing for him. All four Hobbits are going to be sharing quarters now in the King's House."

"That is a good thing, anyway," I said, although I thought it far too optimistic to hope that the presence of his comrades could induce Merry to look on me with less fury.

"Gods!" I exclaimed suddenly, horrified anew the more I thought of it. "Poor Merry! No wonder he has been in a foul mood these weeks past. If he was starting to realise that he loves the lady, but he did not know if he should take any action upon that … No wonder he grew bitter when he and Pippin spoke of whether they'll return to the Shire. And then to be there as Éowyn's attendant, while both you and I have been courting her … my gods, that must have been salt in his wounds, with a vengeance. It's probably only due to the fact that he's a Hobbit that he hasn't tried to murder both of us."

I sighed angrily then, jumped to my feet and started pacing. "But I probably shouldn't say anything like that, should I?" I muttered. "Probably he'd yell at me now for saying all Hobbits are alike, even if I'm saying they're not likely to commit murder! Damn it, Faramir," I went on, with a groan. "He's right, you know. It is my fault. It's my fault for never even considering that he _could _have feelings for the lady; for being so surprised when I learned that he does. I'd never have been so amazed if he were a Man of Gondor or of Rohan who'd been serving as Éowyn's esquire. But he's a Hobbit, so I never even dreamt of that."

I shook my head and murmured, "Everything he said was right. I've _thought_ that I believe the Hobbits our equals, in their valour and the strength of their minds, and in their worth. But if I do believe them our equals, why was I so surprised to learn of this? Why should I think it any wonder if Merry, fighting alongside the lady on the battlefield and working with her day in and day out, has seen her beauty and her worth even as you and I have seen them? What has stopped me from seeing the likelihood of that, if not for the damned, meaningless fact that he happens to be shorter than we are?

"I thought myself his friend," I said bitterly. "If I were his friend, I would never have been guilty of discounting him thus."

"If you are guilty of discounting him," was Faramir's grim answer, "then so am I, and so is Aragorn. He and I spoke of it briefly just before I left the ball. Neither of us considered how Merry's feelings might have developed. Valar know that I _should_ have considered it," he added, "seeing him grow still more frowning and troubled with each hour the lady and I spent together.

"It is even as you said," Faramir continued. "I would have thought of the possibility, had he been a Man. I failed to think of it. So, too, did the King, and he has known the Shire-Folk a good deal longer than we have."

"Wonderful," I remarked. "That makes me feel _slightly_ better, to know that all three of us have been jackasses."

My brother smiled a little at that.

"It is cold comfort, I know," he said. "Which is why I brought this along. It's scarce any comfort either, but at least it is warmer." And with those words, he produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, from the floor where he had stashed them beside the bench.

I snorted and said, "It is going to take a bigger bottle than that to comfort me, brother." Nonetheless, I was glad to accept a glass.

We drank for a while listening to the familiar tapestry of noises that is the sound of our City.

At last, rather reluctantly, I broke our companionable quiet. I asked, "Did Éomer manage to tell you of Merry's suit before things went to Mordor in a handbasket?"

"Yes. He'd just finished doing so and was about to go looking for you to tell you, when we heard the shouting." Ruefully Faramir said, "I think poor Éomer may believe being guardian to his sister is a more onerous challenge than being the King of Rohan. Though to be sure, he has not had to encounter the full range of his duties as King of Rohan, as yet.

"He looked very troubled as he told me of it," Faramir continued, "and apologised to me for admitting a third suitor to the field. Normally, he said, he would not have done so, for it is well within a guardian's prerogative to declare that the field is too crowded already. But given Merry's service to Rohan and to the king their uncle, Éomer did not think it just to refuse him. Besides," he added, with another humorously rueful look, "I believe Éomer King is fully as much in the dark as to his sister's thoughts as we are. I do not think he liked the prospect of refusing any worthy suitor, when he did not know but that this prospective suitor might be the one she would have favoured. No reasonable Man would wish to face Éowyn's wrath, did she discover that he had thwarted her wishes thus."

I said in a bitter grumble, "Well, I think the list of suitors has not increased, but still remains at two. Just a different two. She is not now likely to choose me, given the part I played this night."

"Come now, brother!" Faramir exclaimed. "You have no such cause for despair. From all I have heard, you only said something along the lines of 'You are jesting.' Those words are hardly a beheading offence."

"No," I said, "but they may provide the lady at least some ground on which to base her decision – which she seems to have been lacking until now."

Faramir looked unconvinced by my argument, but he shrugged. "The thoughts of a woman are not for us to fathom," he declared, and he took a larger-than-usual swig of his whiskey. "Even," he added, "the thoughts of a woman who is as fine a warrior as any Man."

That statement sent his thoughts along other lines. After some little time of silence, he very quietly asked me, "Do you ever wonder what Éoflæd and Théodhild would think of our suits for Éowyn? What they _do_ think of it?"

Taken by surprise by the question, I chuckled. I said, "I should imagine they are shaking their heads, rolling their eyes, and saying that they should have known we would land ourselves into this kind of mire."

He smiled a little, but he shook his head. "Not so much the fact that we are courting the same woman. The fact that we're courting anyone at all."

He sighed softly. "Sometimes it still feels as though I am betraying Éoflæd. Even though I know that it should not. It has been five years," he went on, almost as though speaking to himself. "Five years. No one would tell us it is too soon. No one, except that sometimes I think it will always be too soon."

I could not keep from sighing, myself. "I know," I said to him. "I know. But it is not too soon, Faramir. It is not. Éoflæd would never wish her death to deny to you all the joys still ahead of you in life."

"But how can we know that?" he whispered. "How can we ever truly know what they think, what they want? If I had died instead of she, I would _like _to think that I would wish only for her to be happy with her life. But would I? Or would it not just endlessly torment me – the thought of her in the arms of another Man?"

"You're talking drivel," I told him, reaching over and helping myself to more whiskey. "Of course you would want her to be happy and go on. You take selflessness to within an inch of your life; I can't imagine you'd be any less self-sacrificing after death!"

"But," he persisted, not allowing me to turn him from his course, "what _do_ you think they think of us now?"

Reluctantly, I forced myself to consider the question.

I said at last, "They understand, I think. And they do not blame us. Remember, Faramir," I went on, "they are the daughters of a king. They understand the duty to perpetuate one's family; to secure the succession. They would never wish us to cast aside our duty to our line, to fail in carrying on our ancestors' legacy."

"They are the daughters of a king, indeed," Faramir murmured. "Yet Théoden King did not remarry after the loss of his wife. No more did our father."

"No," I admitted, "they did not. But Théoden King and our father both had already secured their successions – or at least secured them to a reasonable degree of certainty. I suppose no Man ever wishes to admit the possibility that all of his children may be in their graves before he is in his."

I shook my head, attempting to banish those thoughts. "You are right, Faramir," I said, "we cannot know what Théodhild and Éoflæd think of us. I do not believe that they blame us, but if they do, we are hardly the first in history to face this predicament! I should think that fully a third of those who have lived, have remarried upon the loss of their first spouse."

I had, of course, simply pulled that estimate out of the air, but it seemed to me like a reasonable guess. I continued, "And each one of them must have had to face an eventual reunion with the first spouse, and the potential embarrassment when the first and the second – or the third, or the fourth – encounter each other!"

Faramir looked a little impatient with my attempt at levity. "The fact that a third of the people in history have faced this dilemma," he pointed out, "may not make it any easier to face it ourselves."

"No," said I, "but there may at least be some social conventions in place for dealing with one's subsequent spouses, behind which we can take refuge. But, truly," I argued, "I do not believe we need fear. If one of us marries Éowyn, he at least should have no cause for dread. She is their favourite cousin. I cannot believe that either of them would harbour any resentment against her. We can hope, at least, that their love for her may extend to forgiveness for her husband."

I had sought to defend both Faramir and myself from melancholy by forcing the conversation into lightness. But that attempt had been doomed to failure, at least so far as Faramir was concerned.

He whispered now, "I never want to hurt her."

I thought it an unanswered question whether "her" referred to Éoflæd, to Éowyn, or to them both.

"I know," I tried to assure him, choosing one possible reading of his words, "and you will not hurt her. Éoflæd loves you. And loving you, your happiness could never bring her hurt."

He smiled palely and said, "I hope you are right."

He looked down, noticed he still had some whiskey in his glass, and finished it off. Changing the subject abruptly then, he asked me, "Do you have any plans regarding the difficulty with Merry?"

"I will write to him, I suppose," I said. "I will tell him what I have told you, and ask him to accept my apologies. I think it would not be wise to attempt to see him. It is like to be some while yet before he can stomach the sight of my face."

"Sadly," said Faramir, "I think you are right on that."

Faramir re-stoppered the whiskey bottle and collected up our two glasses. "I'll return this to your cellar," he said. "I asked Master Gavrilo to fetch it for me, once he'd confirmed my guess that you were here."

I grinned a little in amusement at Faramir's executive decision that our drinking session was ended. I reclaimed both bottle and glasses from his hands. "I believe that each of us requires one more drink," said I. "Then I will permit you to protect me from myself."

"I am only fulfilling my duty to my king," he said. "I doubt that he wants his Steward and Captain-General turning up at tomorrow's Council session pickled."

"It is the morning after a coronation ball. Every Man of the Council will be more-or-less pickled."

"Then let us you and I be two of the less pickled ones."

Despite this resolution, Faramir did not complain when I poured for him one more glass. He raised his glass to mine and said quietly, "To the Lady Éowyn. And to whichever of her suitors she chooses."

"And to the two whom she does not choose," I added, as we touched our glasses together.

He nodded and repeated, "To Lady Éowyn and her suitors."

As he stood to take his departure, my brother said, "Let me dispense one last piece of Stewardly wisdom for the evening. Stop cursing yourself over this mess with Merry, and get to bed."

I waved goodnight to him, but I made no immediate move to follow his advice. I sat, once more letting the sounds of the City seep into me, and drifting slightly in a bittersweet tide of wishes and regrets.

I was startled to realize it. But one of my sharpest wishes was that I could go now and visit Svip.

I wanted to go to the River, to dive into it and let the peace of its waters briefly steal my troubles from me. But I found that I did not want to go there alone. I wished I could go to the Fountain now and ask Svip to come with me for a swim. I wished, even, that I could just watch him sleep, could see his sleeping smile as the Fountain of the White Tree rained over him.

I sighed, and I told myself that at least if Lady Éowyn refused me, I was like to have fewer commitments in my life – and thus it should be easier for me to get away from town, to visit Svip at Rauros.

* * *

The next morning I wrote to Merry, as I had told Faramir I would. No letter could say all that I wanted to, but I suppose it would have been more challenging still if I had been attempting to put my thoughts into speech under the glare of Merry's accusing eyes. So I set the words to paper as best I could. I told him that he was right; that I had been blinded by my preconceived notions of Hobbits and of Men. I told him he had done right to seek permission to woo the lady; I told him he was fully as worthy a suitor for the Lady of Rohan as were Faramir and I, and I wished him fortune in his suit.

I did not expect any reply from him, and I received none. But at least the letter was not returned to me unopened. And Pippin, when I saw him later that day at the Office of Rehousing, told me that Merry had indeed read it.

"He just needs time, Boromir," Pippin tried to comfort me. "His pride is still bleeding; it's just going to take a while for the wound to close up."

"I know," I assured my young friend. "Believe me, I know."

One thing which I expected that day did not come to pass: I did not receive word from the Lady Éowyn that she declined to further consider my suit.

When the day ended and I found myself still, apparently, an acknowledged suitor, I confess that my feelings were mixed.

It had been almost a relief when I believed that I might no longer need to worry myself over what the White Lady thought of me. Yet when I thought of her, when I remembered how greatly her beauty had outshone all others in the Great Hall of Feasting, when I thought of her eyes, solemn and laughing and icily fierce in turn, when I remembered her grousing about being compelled to learn to dance; at all those times I thanked the Valar that I had apparently not destroyed my chances with her.

Those days following Aragorn's coronation made it clear that I was to have a role in the new regime for which we had not entirely planned. I was to be the Man to whom every discontented or troubled official turned, when he did not feel comfortable addressing either Steward or King.

In its essence, I suppose that was nothing new. Ever since I was invested as Captain-General and began regularly attending the Council, many had assigned to me just that sort of function. If they felt strongly for a cause but did not quite dare to bring it to the Lord Denethor himself, they would go to me, as the Man who might have the greatest chance of swaying the Lord Steward's opinions.

Not that Lord Denethor often let his thoughts be swayed by anyone but himself. But if anyone had a chance of influencing him, that Man was most likely to be me.

So now it was an easy step for our officers and guild leaders to continue seeing me in that role. The King, they did not know; he was a newcomer and for many, he was still a mystery. Faramir, though they loved him, had the majesty of the Steward's office about him. Then, too, he had spent much of his adult life on the border in Ithilien; for many of the guildleaders he was perhaps not quite such a familiar presence as was I. And for those who resented our change in regime, Faramir might seem potentially too closely linked to the King.

Me, they knew. They had been used to taking their complaints and petitions to me for decades. And my position was just anomalous enough in our new government – there was just enough possibility of seeing me as an outsider – that perhaps they hoped to find in me a sympathetic hearer for every trouble that they brought to me.

My most frequent visitor in those first weeks was Captain Brithnoth of the Citadel Guard.

On that first day after the coronation, he sought permission to speak with me at the close of the Council session. In my townhouse office, the old gentleman unburdened himself with a force of bitterness I had never heard from him.

"What are we to make of this guard of Rangers?" he demanded of me, pacing about the room. "He brings them in and deposits them on us without a by-your-leave. What are they; what is their position among us? Do they outrank the Guards of the Citadel? Does their commander have authority over me? If this Dírhael and I were to give conflicting orders, who would be obeyed? Or what if he were to bring an order to me; am I to obey him rather than taking my orders from you or from the Steward or from the King himself? What is the position of the Citadel Guard; for the Valar's sakes, what is to be our purpose, if these strangers are to be the Guard of Honour for the King?"

"I will speak to the King of it and seek to clarify all of that," I said to him. I went on, "I think it would be best if I were to bring you, the King and Lieutenant Dírhael together; if all of us talk this through and attempt to iron out the difficulties." Brithnoth looked far from pleased at that suggestion, but I forged on. "Perhaps the two units could be amalgamated, at least while all are stationed in the capital, and the northern Rangers could become a part of the Guard of the Citadel."

"My Lord," said Captain Brithnoth, looking wounded, "I am surprised that you would say that. You of all Men should know the exclusive nature of our regiment. You yourself have recommended Men to join our ranks on two or three occasions. You know that the Citadel Guard consists solely of those who have most greatly distinguished themselves in other regiments. Only those who have proven their exceptional valour, honour and loyalty by their deeds for Gondor may serve among us. Are we then to accept any ragtag warrior from the northern forests, knowing nothing of their deeds or their characters? In what way is that fair to the Men who _have_ performed great deeds and by them have won their way into the Guards of the Citadel, if Men of the north may be counted among us without our even being able to inquire into their backgrounds?"

I held back a sigh, reflecting that it took no great insight to guess how Captain Brithnoth had voted on the question of whether to acclaim Aragorn as king. I attempted some slight pacification: "I am certain they would not serve as Aragorn's Rangers without being Men of valour and honour, who have won his trust—"

"That is not sufficient," snapped the elderly guardsman. "There are Men of valour, honour and trust, by the thousands, in every regiment of Gondor. Are all of them also to become Guards of the Citadel? And I suppose you will tell me now, as we have heard until we are sickened by it, that these Rangers, to a Man, are the King's kinsmen. What of that? Our kinsmen may betray us as readily as may any other Man. And when they do betray us, there is more danger in it, for their closeness gives them more weapons they may use against us. If being a kinsman of the King is sufficient for joining the Citadel Guard, then let us admit into our ranks every one of _your_ cousins, too! Surely being descended from any brother of any Steward of Gondor should make one eligible to join the most exclusive fighting force in our nation!"

"Captain," I said, hoping against hope to dam his flood of invective, "I understand your concerns, and to an extent, I share them. Certain it is that this has not yet been fully thought out and talked through, and that much work is needed to determine how the regiments will work together. I will endeavour to arrange a meeting between the King and yourself. It is only fair, I think, that Lieutenant Dírhael should be present at such a meeting. I would hope that the two of you could at least accord each other professional respect, and not allow the tension that has developed between you to negate the possibility of any fruitful discussion."

"I can accord him the respect due his rank and his presumed valour," was Brithnoth's frosty reply, "so long as I am not expected to bow and scrape to him simply because he is the son of the uncle of our monarch's fifth cousin!"

This time I did not manage to restrain my sigh. Dírhael, I recalled, did in fact have some closer blood tie to Aragorn than did most of the other northern Rangers, which ties Aragorn had mentioned to me when he introduced his lieutenant. But not being familiar with the genealogy of the northern leaders, I had immediately forgotten from which sister of what Chieftain of the North the lieutenant traced his descent.

Wearily I said, "I am certain that the respect due his rank and valour is all that the lieutenant asks."

Thus a meeting was arranged for the next day. In the event, that meeting included Aragorn, the two rival commanding officers, myself, and Faramir as well. We were very much better off for Faramir's presence, for it needed all of his conciliatory skill and Aragorn's, and what little of it I possess, to hold the conversation at a civil level.

As is usual in such conflicts, the solutions toward which we moved were pleasing to neither of the two antagonists. Dírhael was predictably incensed at Brithnoth's demand that he provide a report on all of the Rangers' lineage and service records. At length he agreed to do so only in return for Brithnoth supplying the same for all of the Guards of the Citadel. I sincerely doubted whether Dírhael wanted to read through hundreds of Guardsmen's service records, but I suppose perhaps he was willing to do so, for the principle of the thing.

Another aspect of the plan which the two commanders accepted but grudgingly was that each Ranger should be partnered with a Guard of the Citadel, to stand their guard shifts together and begin to gain each other's acquaintance. Dírhael, of course, saw this as his Men being insulted by the implication that the Guardsmen were needed to keep an eye on them.

I made a suggestion which we adopted, and which pleased Captain Brithnoth but was unsurprisingly galling to Dírhael: that the Rangers should alternate their time guarding the Citadel with the more general duties of the regular City Guard. I argued that this was not meant to imply any demotion for Aragorn's Men. It simply would serve them well to gain more knowledge of Minas Tirith and its people, since all of the Rangers' lives had been spent outside of Gondor's borders.

Aragorn, I thought, had also looked a trifle irritated when first I made this suggestion. But he had listened solemnly as I argued for it, and at length he added his voice to mine, assuring his lieutenant that this was a needed and valuable step.

As the meeting drew to its close, I prayed that not all of the Rangers and Guardsmen had their underdrawers in such a twist over this matter as did their officers. If they had, we were like to have a very long few months ahead of us.

Brithnoth and Dírhael departed, Aragorn holding the latter in conversation long enough that presumably the two of them would not just run into each other again outside of the office door. When the Ranger lieutenant also had taken his leave, the King cast Faramir and me a look of weary apology.

"I could offer the excuse that he is young yet," said Aragorn. "But I fear that even when he is not young, diplomacy will not be his strong suit." Aragorn shook his head then, with a smile that held both sorrow and affection. He said, "It's at times like this that I most miss Halbarad. He would gain the Captain's friendship come hell or high water, merely by knowing the right jokes to tell, and by knowing when to keep silent. And before we knew it, he'd have convinced Captain Brithnoth to go out drinking with him. By the end of the evening they'd be like old shield-brothers."

Faramir simply gave a solemn nod, apparently fully aware of who Halbarad was – or of who he had been. For my own part, although I wracked my brain to remember it, I could not recollect ever having heard of the Man.

Aragorn noted my blank expression, and explained, "He was my first cousin. My mother's younger sister was his mother. He was Dírhael's predecessor in the command of our Rangers. Halbarad fell in battle here, on the day the siege was broken."

"I had not realized that," I said to him. "I am sorry."

As Aragorn nodded his thanks, the thought came to me that this might be a rare opportunity to talk with both Faramir and Aragorn, without scores of Councillors joining in the conversation.

We had stood to bid goodbye to Brithnoth and Dirhael. Now I would have sat again, but that I remembered a point of etiquette. I said, with a smile that hopefully robbed the words of rancour, "I am sorry, I forgot. Should we wait to sit until Your Majesty is seated?"

"No, for the Valar's sakes!" Aragorn exclaimed. If we had known each other for longer, I think he would have been inclined to throw something at me. Certainly Faramir usually throws something at me when he uses that same tone of voice. Aragorn continued, "You don't need to try to walk backward when you go out of the room, either. We have more than enough ceremony elsewhere. Sit down, both of you, and tell me what crisis we need to resolve at this precise moment."

"No crisis, I think," I said, "at this precise moment. But while we have the chance, there is something I would like to ask of both of you."

In a gesture that perhaps by now I should have expected from him, Aragorn pulled his chair out from behind the desk. I thought of how strange it seemed for the three of us to be seated there, so informally, in this office. But that was no stranger, perhaps, than it felt to see Aragorn seated behind that desk, instead of my father.

I began, "I want to ask you … whether you truly feel it makes sense for me to continue to serve as Captain-General." Both of them started to make some exclamations in reply, but I waved them to silence. "The objections I saw to my taking office as Steward, are perhaps even more valid when it comes to the Captain-Generalship. How does it serve Gondor if the officer who should oversee all of her military operations can only travel in a five-mile corridor to either side of the River? We may hope that our forces will face fewer calls to action now than they have in these past centuries. But we cannot rely on that hope. When we do again hear the call to arms, our Captain-General should be one who can visit our troops wherever they may be; who can see for himself the conditions upon the ground and who can take action and advise the Steward and the King based upon what he has seen."

Both Faramir and Aragorn were frowning as they listened to me. But as they made no immediate move to speak, I argued on.

"The Captain-General is not always the Steward's Heir," I pointed out. "Certainly it has been become traditional for the same Man to hold both titles, when he is of age. But before each Steward's Heir has come of age, there have been interim Captains-General, who have simply been officers appointed at the pleasure of the Steward." I said to Aragorn, "It would be fully within accepted practice for you to appoint a new Captain-General now. Or," I went on, "since all of our offices must be juggled and re-thought to an extent, now that a king is again part of the picture, perhaps the role of Captain-General could be partially combined with that of the Steward."

"Valar's blood, Boromir!" Faramir cried out, in tones of exasperation. "Are you trying to off-load _all_ of your offices onto me? If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were just trying to get out of having to do any work."

While I tried to think of a retort to that, Aragorn said, "There is no need for it. As you say, all of our offices must be rethought, but I see no cause for change in the Captain-Generalship at this point. I know, Boromir, that you _wish_ to be the kind of commanding officer who can go everywhere that his Men are stationed. But you must know that not all commanders do so, and you must simply accept that you cannot do so now, either. Galling though it is to you, you will have to accept it: you will go wherever you can go, and for the rest, you must trust in the reports of the other officers in the field. You cannot be the entire army, no matter how much you wish to be. And you could not be in all places at once, and take sole responsibility for Gondor's defence unto yourself, even _before_ you became linked to the Great River."

Mentally I sighed, and I thought yet again of how frustrating it can be to argue with Men so calm, so rational, and so convinced of their own rightness as are Aragorn and my brother – although just then "calm" was not a particularly accurate description of Faramir.

I marshalled my arguments again. I said, "It is true that no officer can be everywhere, and true that not all commanders have their headquarters in the field. But why should we not give Gondor leaders who can serve her to the fullest? Why should we burden her with a Captain-General as curtailed and hampered as I? If I were ill and unable to fulfil my duties, you would accept my resignation. How is this any different?"

"It is different," said Faramir, "because you are not ill, and you are not unable to perform your duties. You are simply unwilling to accept a reasonable definition of what those duties are."

"Well, then," I said to both of them, "if you are too stubborn to be moved on this, then what if Faramir and I were to serve as joint Captains-General? He at least would be able to journey to the many regions of Gondor that I cannot reach, and I could oversee any operations that take place near the River."

King and Steward both still looked monumentally unimpressed. I exclaimed, "Is there nothing I can say that will get through your thick skulls? Listen, it is not as though I'm attempting to get out of being Chief Warden of the White Tower. I am more than willing to retain that duty. I would not burden anyone else with being the first line of defence against the complaints of Captain Brithnoth."

Aragorn chuckled quietly at that, and Faramir gave this sarcastic reply, "Very noble of you. But you can't hope that by telling a few jokes you can make your faulty arguments hold any more water. _You_ listen, brother: yes, we will have to examine all of it, and determine the wisest distribution for all of our duties. But it still stands to reason that the Steward should be the chief civilian official under the King, and the Captain-General should be the chief military officer. And I'm flattered by your high opinion of me, but I assure you I'm not omniscient enough that I can perform all of the duties of the two highest-ranking government officials in the country!"

Aragorn said to me in serious tones, "I'm afraid that you will have to face it, Boromir. Gondor has need of you, and you _are_ able to serve her, even though you may have to serve her from a headquarters in Minas Tirith rather than on the front line of every battlefield."

Meeting their implacable expressions, I reluctantly resigned myself to accepting defeat, for this time. "Well," I said, "then the discussion shall be shelved for now; but it is not closed. I would point out, Sire, that there is like to come a time when you will be glad for me to gracefully relinquish the office of Captain-General. I know that I speak not of the immediate future. Nonetheless – as I'm certain Lord Húrin would inform us in detail, did we ask him – I would remind you that in the days of the kings, the Captain-Generalship was traditionally held by the eldest son of the king. I see no cause to doubt that Your Majesty will have an heir of your own, and in time to come I should think that you will wish for him to hold this office, not I."

The King smiled, and he said, "Then at that time, I will be glad for him to be trained in his duties by his predecessor in the office, the Lord Boromir Son of Denethor."

So I conceded the victory to Aragorn and my brother – and I returned to my townhouse office, there to be encountered by three nervous guild leaders, each waiting to tell me of his worries over our new regime.

Strange though one's life may be, and mighty though the upheavals encountered from day to day when one lives at the start of a new Age, even the strangest life can quickly become routine. So it was that a new routine again settled upon me.

Most mornings were spent in meetings of the Council. Most afternoons I spent in work with the Office of Rehousing, or at my townhouse, hearing and attempting to calm various worried officials. Every third afternoon, now, was passed in the company of Lady Éowyn.

There were some unavoidable changes to the time I spent with the lady.

Meriadoc Brandybuck, obviously, was no longer her attendant on those rides. Instead there rode with us a very young Rider of Rohan named Fréaláf, who looked embarrassed at being given such a duty, and who had the notable virtue, as far as I was concerned, of perpetually trying to stay as far away from us as he could while still keeping us in view.

For my attendant, in the place of the absent Svip, I chose my young esquire Balamir. He was near to bursting with pride at being chosen, especially since he was permitted to wear a sword when we rode on these expeditions. I think the only times I saw the Rider Fréaláf smile came when even he could not remain dour in the face of Balamir's glowing enthusiasm. Balamir got him talking about the battles in which he'd taken part, and the boy clearly hero-worshipped the young Rider, which doubtless can't have hurt in improving Fréaláf's mood.

I found it impossible not to feel the absence of both Merry and Svip, however I endeavoured to force myself not to think of them. And Merry's absence brought with it for me inescapable twinges of conscience.

I knew nothing, of course, of the progress of his courtship. Even had it not been in poor taste for the lady's suitors to consult with each other, I had no doubt that Merry would still refuse to speak to me.

To myself I confessed, although I might not have been willing to admit it to anyone else, that I had great difficulty imagining that Éowyn might accept Meriadoc as her husband. Or at least, I had trouble imagining it when I thought of the two of them living in the Shire.

The height of the ceilings was the least of the difficulties, for it would be easy enough for Merry to build a home with higher roofs. But my thoughts rebelled against picturing the Lady Éowyn as being happy with a Hobbit's lifestyle. The vision of her contentedly taking tea with the other goodwives of the Shire, or puttering about in her kitchen garden, seemed a study in impossibility.

But then I thought that they might, instead, live in Rohan, and then their union did not seem impossible. I could see that Merry might be happy in the fields of the Mark. I could see him training to become a full-fledged Rider of Rohan, fighting with all of his Hobbitly intensity of purpose, to give his all to serve the country that his wife so loved.

Then the chance of Merry being the chosen suitor seemed not so unlikely after all. And then I bitterly chid myself for again allowing pre-formed notions of Men and of Hobbits to guide what I believed to be possible.

Missing Svip was a different experience entirely – perhaps not so sharp a loss, and yet one that came more frequently to my thoughts.

I told myself it was ludicrous to mope over the absence of a friend. I had parted from friends full many a time; there is no way that one can live a soldier's life without doing so. I thought of it, and I could not recall another parting from a friend that had lingered so at the back of my mind; that had tinged my thoughts so frequently with melancholy.

It felt most akin, I thought with wonder and surprise, to the loss of my mother.

It was not akin to those first horrible days and months; not like to the black time just after she was gone, when everything I saw or heard seemed to hurt because she was not there to see or hear it. Instead, I thought, it seemed much as I remembered feeling perhaps two or three years afterward.

In those days, I had missed her most when I was happy. Everything of beauty that I saw, every joy that I felt, I wished with all my heart that I could share with her.

_Boromir, _I told myself now, _you are being a fool. Svip is not dead, and – thanks to him – neither are you. You can hope, with all reason, to see him again in this life. It should simply be as it is when you part with Faramir. No regret in parting can ever be so great as the joy in meeting._

About two weeks after Aragorn's coronation, I gave to the King a set of my voluminous papers on the potential re-construction of Osgiliath. He had asked it of me; in a Council session that focused upon the state of our Treasury, our country's needed expenses, and those expenses that might not be needed but might nonetheless be desirable, Master Eppa of the Stonemasons' Guild had made mention of that project which so occupied his dreams and mine. Aragorn asked me about it after the meeting, and so, rather apologetically, I deposited the mighty stack of papers upon his desk. I assured him that I did not expect him to wade his way through all of this immediately; I knew that he had more than enough on his plate already. He at first eyed the stack a little warily, but Aragorn then shrugged gamely enough and said, "Well, I did say I wanted to be king."

That same day, it was again my turn to have the honour of waiting upon the Lady Éowyn.

When we met that afternoon at the Rohirrim stables, I found that a long-dreaded moment had finally come to pass. I could think of no appropriate and interesting place to which the lady and I might ride.

So I gave that task to her, asking if she would choose a destination for our ride that day.

For some moments she pondered the question. Then she said, while sombrely studying me, "My Lord, I know not if this be anything you would wish to do. But if it would not grieve you too greatly, I should like to ride to the hill where your Lord father fell in battle, and pay my respects to him there."

It was now my turn to ponder that. In truth, I thought, I did not know how I felt about the prospect. And I was like not to know, until I stood upon the hill myself. But I did know that I treasured hearing her say that she wished to pay her respects to my father.

I said, "I would be glad to ride there with you, Lady."

She asked me then, "It is not too far from the River for you to journey there in safety?"

"No," I answered, "it should not be. My strength and my senses were returning to me by the time we met the Orcs in battle there. If I do encounter anything difficulty, it will be easily dealt with. It should be no great matter to return to the River from Ostoher's Hill."

As we rode, I had many an opportunity to study the Lady Éowyn. And I was grieved by much that I saw.

I thought that the duty of juggling her three suitors must be taking a toll on her. She had often now a troubled and preoccupied air, like that I remembered seeing upon her when Faramir and I first spoke with her in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. Her smiles came less frequently now than in recent days they had become wont to do.

Time and again, as we rode, I was on the brink of telling her that I would withdraw my suit. I hoped it might take some of the trouble from her, if she no longer had to uphold the burden of giving time and consideration to all three of us.

But each time I thought of it, I held the words back. I ran up against the same objection as when first my brother and I had sought permission to court her.

If I withdrew my suit, it would be a decision I took from out of the Lady Éowyn's control. And she, I thought, would not thank me for that, no matter how she might long to be out of her present dilemma.

We left our horses with Fréaláf and Balamir, near the base of the hill. It was a strange and slightly unsettling thought to realize that Éowyn and I were approaching Ostoher's Hill from the same direction as had the Orcs, in their assault upon my father and Pippin.

Few traces remained to be seen of the fight in which my father had died. I could see the twisted, burned trunk of the tree that Pippin and Svip set alight, on the crown of the hill. At the crest of that promontory I saw also what was likely the log behind which we had sheltered, when first we reached the hilltop. But the corpses of our enemies were gone; doubtless added to the mass grave of our foes slain in the fighting at Emyn Arnen.

And as Lady Éowyn and I walked closer to the slope, we beheld what was to me both a gladdening and a surprising sight.

We were not the first to pay a pilgrimage to this spot.

Of the bushes that I vaguely remembered ploughing through on our desperate rush up the hill, very few remained. Some were broken and trampled to near the ground – I supposed that some had been damaged in the fighting, while others must have fallen victim to our people's wish to visit the site of their Lord Steward's death. Some of the bushes had clearly been cut down to open up access to the hill. And beyond the remains of the brush and undergrowth, the whole slope of the hillside near the place where my father died was transformed into an impromptu memorial. It was like a far larger version of the tributes to me that had been assembled on the bar at the Orc's Head Tavern.

Many a bouquet of flowers had been brought here. Some were by now wilted; others were obviously much more recent tributes. Amid the flowers, other tokens dotted the hillside. I saw piles of coins. I saw many letters and notes, some formally scrolled and sealed, others simply folded and tucked beneath flowers to hold them in place. I saw one Rohirrim spear, and I wondered at who might have left it. I saw also two swords, of our own country's workmanship, and I pondered again on whom of our people had given these. Veterans now retired from Gondor's service, perhaps, or mayhap the survivors of the Men who had wielded those swords.

I knelt to examine one of these offerings. About the sword's hilt was bound, by its leathern cord, a service medallion, one of those given for outstanding valour in the Noman-Lands Campaign of 2996.

Lady Éowyn spoke in hushed tones, "There is some tribute from our Riders at the spot where Théoden King fell. But it is nothing like this. Perhaps there will be such, from our people, at Théoden's mound," she went on, "when at last we can bring him home."

"There will be, I am sure of it," I told her.

Cautiously the lady and I made our way up the slope, striving to avoid stepping on any of the tributes. As we paused again to look in wonder at the offerings blanketing the hill, Éowyn asked me, "Can you tell where it is that he fell? Or is it too altered to recognize?"

"It is altered," I agreed. "And during that battle I could only half see – if that."

I gazed at the flower-draped hillside, trying to make it merge in my mind with the murky, firelit slope of my memories. "It must be just about there," I said, pointing to a spot still slightly above us and to our left.

Something about the tributes at that spot seemed strange, out of place. I frowned, then I climbed onward, to see what might be there. The Lady of Rohan climbed with me.

"It makes no sense," I whispered.

I knelt again.

There before me amid the mounded flowers – at what I thought must be very near the place where I had knelt by my father's body upon that grim night – grew a small tree. It bore six main branches upon it. But in the breadth of its trunk it was scarcely more than a twig, a slender and delicate sapling barely two feet tall.

It seemed impossible that this tree had survived without damage, through the trampling that must have taken place on this very spot. That it stood untouched by the feet of the Orcs and of my father, by my father's body when he fell – and by the bodies of the Orcs he slew – by Svip's hooves and the feet of Pippin and myself when we heaved Father's body onto the shapeshifter's back – such a survival seemed a miracle beyond my comprehension.

Yet it could scarcely be, I thought, that the seedling only broke through the soil after my father's last battle. For what tree could grow to two feet in height in less than two months' time?

I leaned closer to study the tree, tentatively reaching out and touching its branches.

Nowhere could I see signs of even the slightest breakage. I thought there was no way in Middle Earth that the tree could have escaped undamaged from the fight in which my father and nigh a score of Orcs fell.

Then suddenly my wonder at this mystery was succeeded by another, far greater amazement.

I heard myself murmur, "It cannot be."

"What cannot be, My Lord?" came Éowyn's quiet, even tones beside me.

"My gods," I whispered, excitement and awe beginning to tremble in my voice. "The tree. My gods. Look at it, Éowyn, look!"

She knelt beside me, and steadily she said, "I see it, Lord Boromir. But it is plain that you see more in it than I do. You see more in this than the miracle that it survived through the battle. Will you tell me?"

All I could manage to answer then was, "The White Tree."

The Lady of Rohan repeated, "The White Tree?" She paused, then said, "The people of Gondor know its legend better than we of Rohan. I know little save that it is the ancient symbol of Gondor."

Automatically I gave a disclaimer, "I probably don't know the legend as well as I should. But you are right; every Man of Gondor knows at least its outlines."

That much was true, but in truth I knew far more than the story's outline. No one could grow to adulthood as the son of the Steward of Gondor – or as the brother of Faramir – without gaining a close acquaintance with the tale of the White Tree.

So I told her, "The first White Tree grew in Númenor. Elendil brought a seedling of it when he came to Middle Earth. He planted the tree at Minas Ithil – the citadel that became Minas Morgul when the Dark Lord took it. That tree was destroyed in the fighting, I think, but Isildur planted another seedling at Minas Anor – Minas Tirith, now. Then … that tree, I think, withered 1500 years ago or so, at the time of the Great Plague. But there was another seedling that was planted, and that one grew in the Courtyard until maybe 150 years ago, when the threat from the East was again coming to the fore. It's the tree that stands there now; when it died, no seedling could be found. So it was left in place, until such day as a seedling should be discovered."

Lady Éowyn asked, "And this is that seedling?"

I nodded, feeling strangely numb. "I think … I think it must be. It is the same as in all the old pictures – the tapestry in the King's House, and Isildur's banners in the Armoury, and the painting in the Hall of Feasts. And – there is a whole book on the White Tree, in the Steward's Library. Some king or other commissioned it when he saw that the Tree had started to wither – King Telemnar, I suppose that must have been. It's got chapters on every aspect of the tree – colour paintings; for Valar's sakes, even diagrams of the flowers and the leaves!" I shook my head, smiling a little as I recalled, "When he was ten or so, Faramir would read that book for days on end. And he wheedled me into jaunting around the countryside with him, seeking a seedling of the White Tree."

Belatedly I remembered that this story might fall into the category of funny stories about each other, which we brothers had pledged not to tell in the process of our courtships. But it was too late to worry about that now. And I hardly thought this tale counted as an embarrassing anecdote.

Gingerly I touched one of the tree's leaves. I half feared that it might vanish at my touch, or burst into flames.

"It is the same," I murmured. "It is the same, it must be. The leaves; see how they are dark above, and silver beneath? And the flowers – that one little cluster of them, right up at the top. It's said that the crown of the tree was always the first to bloom; that's probably why it was a symbol of the kings, because of the way it bore a crown."

I got to my feet, still gazing at the tiny twig that occasioned so much wonder in me.

I said again, "It is the same. It must be the same. It is the White Tree."

It was the Tree. The question was, what did that mean?

Ruefully I looked to Éowyn, who had also risen to her feet.

"There is magic in this, clear enough," I said. "And clear enough, it means _something_. The trick now lies in figuring out _what_ it means."

"You will need to inform others of this?" she suggested.

"Aye, I will, and with all haste. I apologize for cutting short our ride …"

"It is no hardship, My Lord," the lady answered, smiling. "It is not every day that one's afternoon ride leads one to stumble upon a miracle."

So it was that nigh to three hours later a gaggle of important personages stood upon Ostoher's Hill, all staring at the miniscule tree. I was part of this august if bemused group, as were Aragorn, Faramir, Éomer King with the Lady Éowyn, Prince Imrahil, Mithrandir, Lord Húrin of the Keys, Master Moluag the Chief Healer, Master Æshere the Herbmaster of the Houses of Healing, and the Master of the Library. Ordinarily, doubtless, Elladan, Elrohir and Lord Glorfindel would have been there also. But they had departed from Minas Tirith only the day before, on their return voyage to Imladris.

Pippin was there with us as well, standing close by me and looking not at all pleased to be back at the site of my father's last battle. We had asked him on this expedition, for as the other remaining survivor of that fight, he could perhaps aid in determining where precisely the Lord Denethor had met his death.

We were a solemn-faced bunch, considering that we stood about gazing at a twig. It occurred to me that we must make a fairly ludicrous sight. But I think that none of us felt much like laughing, not even my Uncle Imrahil with his famous sense of humour.

The King and the Steward knelt by the tree, both studying it with expressions of fascination. When finally he could tear his gaze from the tiny plant, Aragorn glanced to Faramir and said, "I think it must be the Tree. Is it not?"

Faramir nodded. He murmured, "I think it has to be."

"Aye, My Lords," put in Æshere the Herbmaster, "I think there cannot truly be any doubt. If I may, Master Librarian?" he asked, reaching out for the mithril-bound volume _The White Tree of Gondor _which the Librarian protectively clutched.

Clearly striving not to appear too grudging, the Master of the Library handed the book over to him, keeping an eye on it like a particularly worried mother hen. Æshere flipped through the pages with a haste that made the Librarian grit his teeth, while Aragorn and Faramir stood to look at the book over the Herbmaster's shoulders.

Æshere was saying, "It seems the same in the full length paintings, but of course there is not enough detail in those to say for certain. But if we look at the closer views, and the diagrams – yes, there. See, on the flowers, the curve with which the petals taper. And the number of the petals; always the six points around a golden centre. And then the leaves … not only the colours of them, but if you look, here, at the pattern of the veins in them. If you will compare this drawing with the leaves of this tree …"

King, Steward and Herbmaster knelt again, cautiously handling one of the leaves and holding it next to the drawing in question.

"It is remarkable," Aragorn whispered. "Look! The drawing could have been made of this very leaf."

When at last the three stood once more, and had returned the book to the grasp of the Master Librarian, all of us stared at the sapling in pondering silence.

First to speak now was Húrin of the Keys. He asked, "How has a seedling grown here now, when it is centuries since the Tree last bore fruit?"

It was Mithrandir who answered that. "It is said that, though the fruit of the tree comes seldom to ripeness, yet the life within may then lie sleeping for many long years, and none can foretell the time in which it will awake. Who shall say when this fruit was planted? Perhaps it was long before the kings failed, when a seed of the line of Nimloth the Fair was committed to this earth."

Æshere the Herbmaster nodded. "Telemnar's treatise on the Tree tells that it was custom to plant at least one fruit of each flowering, in the hallowed places of Gondor, in hopes of thus stopping the Tree's line from dying out of the world."

Lady Éowyn asked, "Was this hill, then, a hallowed place even before Lord Denethor hallowed it with his blood?"

All we of Gondor looked a bit blank on that, for I think none of us could recall hearing that the hill had any ritual significance.

Pippin piped up, "It's called Ostoher's Hill. Who's Ostoher?"

"King of Gondor," answered several of us at once, Aragorn and myself among them. Faramir explained further, "The seventh king, who rebuilt Minas Anor and began the tradition of the kings using it as their summer residence. It was in his time that the first skirmishes took place between Men of Gondor and wild Men of the East. One fight took place here, I believe, and Ostoher's vantage point during the battle was on this hill. That's why it was named after him – I think," he added, with an apologetic smile. "I'll have to look it up again to be certain of that."

"It makes sense, then," said Uncle Imrahil. "As a site that played a role in Gondor's defence, it will have seemed a worthy planting place for a seed of the Eldest of Trees."

While we contemplated that, Éomer King said, "So we know how and why it came here. Now what do we do with it?"

Moluag the Chief Healer blinked at the King of Rohan in surprise. "Why, plant it in the Courtyard of the Tree, where all its predecessors have grown. Why should we do otherwise?"

"It is not as simple as that," I heard myself saying, almost before I knew I was going to speak. "This hill is not only the site of Ostoher's command position, now. I will not believe that it means nothing that the White Tree of Gondor has sprouted upon the very spot where my Lord father fell."

A silence again succeeded my pronouncement. Lord Húrin said slowly, clearly thinking through his words as he spoke them, "How close _is_ the seedling to the site where Lord Denethor breathed his last? Have we means of determining that?"

I felt a flash of anger at the seeming implication that it made a difference whether the two locations were one foot apart or six; that there was less of a tie between my father's death and the tree if a few feet separated its trunk from the soil that his life's blood had soaked. But I told myself that it _did_ make some difference. At the very least, there would be less of a miracle in the tree's survival – though its very existence seemed still a miracle – if it should be found to be growing farther from the battle site than I believed.

"Master Peregrin?" Faramir gently asked the young Hobbit. "Is there aught you can recall that will aid in pinpointing the location?"

Pippin grimaced uncomfortably. "Well, it was very dark, of course, and – under all the flowers, every bit of hill looks more or less the same. It doesn't seem right to disturb people's offerings, but … if we could move some of them and have a look at the ground, we should be able to tell."

Faramir nodded, then glanced questioningly at me. I said, "I do not believe the people who gave these offerings would object; not if they knew the reason for it. Nor would our father. Let us get to work, then," I added, looking to both Faramir and Pippin, "and see what we can see."

So while the others held back, from respect, the three of us carefully began shifting aside the piles of flowers and letters that surrounded the White Tree. From time to time either Faramir or I would smile encouragingly at the Hobbit, who managed very sickly smiles in return. But I think that neither of us was immune to the same qualms that Pippin must have been feeling: the uneasy sensation that by exposing the earth beneath these offerings, we were very nearly digging into our father's grave.

Even without corpses, weapons or still-visible blood, with the tributes moved aside the hillside made a stark picture. Great chunks of soil had been rent asunder by the efforts of the combatants on that grim night. I thought it fairly certain, from its appearance, that at least most of the damage could be traced to the fighting, rather than to our people taking pieces of earth as souvenirs. And a little way downhill of the tiny tree was a deep cut, about two feet in length – a cut that made Pippin cry out in something like triumph, when he saw it.

"I thought so!" he exclaimed. "You'd say that was made by a battle-axe, wouldn't you? One of the Orcs your father killed – the one whose head he cut off – that one had an axe, and it got stuck in the ground when he fell. I think this has to be where the axe was."

I ran my fingers over the cut in the ground, and then Faramir did likewise. The cleft was somewhat weathered by the passage of time and the activities of the many people who had been here, but it still was clear enough.

"It seems right," I said. "I'd say the shape and size both are right for this to have been caused by an axe-blade."

"Yes," Faramir said firmly. "I'd say there's very little doubt."

With a rather queasy expression, Pippin glanced uphill from the cut in the earth, to our miniscule White Tree.

"Then," he began in a tentative voice, "then, well, I guess there can't really be any more question. If this is where the Orc with the axe fell, then really, the place where your father fell has to be – right about there," Pippin concluded, pointing to the tree. "I don't think the tree can have been here when we fought, because Lord Denethor would have been lying right on top of it."

The three of us got again to our feet, and stood for a moment in silence, eyeing that tree.

I know not, of course, what the others who were there felt as we gazed upon it. But their feelings must have been mixed indeed, if they were anything near as jumbled a mixture as were mine.

"Then, what does it _mean_?" asked Moluag the Chief Healer, in plaintive tones that might have sounded comical, had I not been so busy pondering that question myself.

Mithrandir spoke, "The White Tree was linked always with Gondor's kings. Your book tells you, does it not," he continued, turning his gaze upon the Librarian, Master Æshere, and Faramir, "that it was ever the king himself who planted each new tree in the Courtyard of the Fountain. And it was when the line of kings failed, that the Tree bore fruit ever less frequently, until when the last Tree died, there was no seedling to be found. That this tree grows now can only be because the king has come again to Minas Tirith, and a new age is begun for Gondor and for all this Middle Earth."

There was one obvious point that could be raised in reply to that, and it was Aragorn who raised it. He said, frowning, "Yet the ancient link to Gondor's kings does not tell us why the Tree has sprung up nourished by Lord Denethor's life's blood. It would seem that this White Tree's link must be at least as strong to Denethor, as it is to me."

Grateful indeed was I to him, for what cannot have been a particularly agreeable concession for him to make.

Pippin suggested timidly, "Is it possible that, well – that Lord Denethor has had a hand in the Tree turning up now?"

"Who can say what is or is not possible, where this kind of magic is concerned?" answered Uncle Imrahil, with a rueful smile at the Hobbit. More solemnly, he said, "Perhaps Denethor's spirit has had a part in it. Or perhaps it is the Tree itself – or whatever power may be at work – decreeing this spot for its flowering in honour to Denethor and to his sacrifices for Gondor."

The Chief Healer cleared his throat, and said in what I thought was rather too obvious an effort to curry favour with our king, "Mayhap this is Lord Denethor's way of imparting his blessing upon our new government, since he could not live to state his acclamation of the king's return."

Uncle Imrahil made no effort to restrain his snort of derision. He observed dryly, "I am afraid I must say that I find that extremely unlikely."

"Aye, My Lord Prince," said Aragorn, with a grim smile. "I have to say that I agree with you on that."

Lord Húrin of the Keys said, his face darkened by a thundercloud scowl, "There is another interpretation – which I will not speak, for knowing my politics, some might say that it is the interpretation I place on this miracle myself."

Resolutely Aragorn met the Lord of the Keys' gaze, and he said, "That interpretation would be that the Tree has grown here in acclamation of the House of the Stewards, rather than the Line of Isildur – and that it upholds the right of the Stewards to rule Gondor, not the kings?"

A few mutters and some sharp intakes of breath raced around our little assembly when Aragorn spoke those words.

Still scowling furiously, Húrin bowed to the king. "It is you who have said it, Sire," he answered, "not I. But when news of the Tree's appearance becomes known, I fear you are not the only one who will say it."

Aragorn gave a small shrug. He said, "I suppose no one ever told me that being king would be easy."

"Pure drivel," snapped Mithrandir, sounding more like he was speaking to some unruly Hobbit lads than to the Lords of Gondor. "Why should a symbol that has been entwined always with the Heirs of Elendil turn around and have now the opposite meaning?"

"Yet symbols do change their meanings," Aragorn pointed out. "It is how they retain their relevance through the passing of ages."

Faramir seemed almost as impatient with this turn of the discussion as was Mithrandir. "Indeed," he said, "symbols change their meanings, and they may have several meanings at once. Yet this is no academic debate. We have a decision to make and action that must be taken, and we must act without being paralysed by the thought that we know not what the Tree wants from us."

"Aye," put in Éomer of Rohan, "I fear we are never like to know with certainty what this tree's growth here means. Have any of you scholarly gentlemen read that the ancients had a way of elucidating replies from the White Tree when they asked of it its intentions?"

I noticed that Faramir frowned with a look of thought, as though he was almost able to come up with an answer to that. But he did not say anything, and Peregrin Took spoke up, abashed but clear of voice, "Can't it be both? Can't the Tree have grown here to honour Lord Denethor _and _acclaim the return of the kings?"

No one answered him directly. Instead Aragorn said to me, "You have spoken little on this, Boromir. What action do you advise with regard to this tree?"

Grimly, I had to reply, "I do not know. My allegiance to this government, and the teachings of tradition, tell me that we should bring the Tree to Minas Tirith and plant it in the Court of the Fountain. But my love for my father tells me otherwise. For if this tree in some way belongs to him, then I would not see it taken from him. Too much has been taken from him already."

"Yet, Nephew," said Imrahil, "I think the Tree can hardly be left here. Do we intend to post Guards of the Citadel on watch at Ostoher's Hill at all times, to safeguard this seedling? No matter what tie it may bear to Denethor, it is also the symbol of Gondor. Will we leave it then unguarded, for chance mishap to destroy, or worse, for enemies of this country to seize and use as a symbol against us?"

Húrin of the Keys asked Aragorn, "And you, My Lord King? What would you see done with the Tree?"

Aragorn answered, "Unclear though its meanings be, I do not see that we can do otherwise than follow tradition in this. Since a seedling of the Eldest of Trees has appeared to us, I say that we must bring it to the Courtyard of the Fountain and plant it there. The Tree that has stood with honour these centuries past shall be uprooted with reverence and brought to Rath Dínen, there to rest in the House of the Kings—"

"No," I interrupted suddenly, likely startling everyone with the fierceness of my objection. "That is exactly what we must _not_ do."

As Aragorn and the rest of them gazed at me in surprise, I plunged on. "If we are to take the gamble of planting this new tree in the courtyard, well and good. Such an action makes sense. My objections to it are sentimental only, and will not stand up to much scrutiny. But for the love of the gods, let us not uproot the Tree that stands there now! Sire," I went on, my voice growing more impassioned as my argument carried me away with it, "there are enough already of our people who feel misgivings over what their place is to be in this new Age. Already they dread that the new Gondor will have no room for them; that the days before us are to be solely those of new ways; that all honour and preference will go to Men of other lands – and to beings of other races. If we are not to play in to their fears, to increase their suspicions and their resistance to all that seems foreign or new, then by the Valar! Let us not wantonly tear down the symbol that has embodied Gondor's soul for a thousand years!

"Our people have fought for Gondor under the guardianship of that Tree, dead and withered though it be. They feel for it as great a love and loyalty as though it still blossomed in the days of its greatest glory. Our love for that dead tree is not diminished any more than is our love for Gondor, much though we have been told that the days of our nation's greatness are past.

"Sire, if we uproot that tree we risk telling our people that their struggles and their sacrifices and their achievements are as nothing; that in this government in which so much will be new, only the new will have value. We may _say_ it is a new Age; we may be writing upon a fresh page in the Chronicle of Gondor, but this new Age has not just sprung into being freshly formed from the hands of the Valar! The Men of Gondor who live in this new Age are Men who lived and fought and made hazard of their lives in the last one. They are Men who now ask themselves whether, when they are told that all is new, their perils, their losses, and the everyday triumphs that kept Gondor alive in the face of the darkness from the East, are all to be forgotten.

"My Lord, we must show to the people of Gondor that it will not be so. We must show them that the new Gondor will build upon the past, not cast it aside. To show that, let us plant this seedling of the White Tree at the foot of its predecessor. Let the old tree guard over its sapling, as for this millennium past it has guarded over our country. And when the young tree grows, let their branches twine together, as symbol of a Gondor that strides bravely into this so-called new Age while yet giving honour to all that has come before."

Unsurprisingly, silence followed the closing of my diatribe. It was Aragorn who spoke first.

"Boromir," he said seriously, meeting my gaze, "I know that I run the risk of being seen only as a foreign king; that I shall be called an Elf-lover and a Wizard's tool—" this last he added with a rueful smile at the furiously glowering Mithrandir – "and that it will be said that I seek only the good of our allies, not of our own people. I would show the people of Gondor that the reality is not so simple. I would show that I can indeed love and value the Fair Folk of the Forests, that I can honour and be guided by the wisdom of the Istari, and that I can seek to build ever stronger the ties between Gondor and other nations – but that I love Gondor and her people just as deeply, and that I seek to build for all of us the chance to live better lives in this world in which, for the first time, Sauron's darkness is no more.

"I hope I may prove to our people that I am their countryman in truth, not some mere foreign interloper, and that I will fight for them and labour at their sides in all things. And to better keep the promise that I made to Gondor's people at my coronation, I look to you for your aid – I look to all of you," he added, glancing keenly around at our little assembly. "I look to you to tell me when I may do more; when my steps may have gone astray – and to tell me when our people's hearts are darkened by troubles, such as those of which Lord Boromir has spoken now."

Many an assent and promise of such aid was uttered. When the others fell silent, I added, "You have my vow on it, My Lord. You shall have my advice whenever you seek it. And perhaps," I could not resist adding, with a grin, "on some occasions when you do not seek it."

The King grinned back at me. "It will always be welcome," he said, "whether sought or not. I suspect that often what a king most needs to hear is the advice he has not sought."

The White Lady of Rohan was the one who brought us back to the immediate question at hand. She asked, "Are all here then sufficiently satisfied that this White Tree should be moved? And that it is not disrespect to the Lord Denethor to uproot the tree that has blossomed upon the place of his death?"

No one was quick to answer her. Then Faramir spoke.

He said, again with a pondering frown, "I have been thinking of this since Éomer King asked if our longfathers had means of gaining answers from the Tree. There is, I think, at least a way we can learn if the Tree wishes to be moved. It is said in that volume," he explained, gesturing to the book that the Master of the Library still clutched, "that when a seedling of the Tree is willing to be moved from the earth where it grows, its hold in the ground will be light. And that when it is not willing, it would take a mighty effort to shift the roots from the ground."

"Aye," Æshere the Herbmaster agreed excitedly, "aye, so it is! I recall a tale in which Men came to move a seedling of the tree, and the three strongest Men of the Court could not shift it. So I believe they gave up then, and chose another seedling for their planting."

"Unfortunately," put in Lord Húrin, "we have not the luxury of choosing another."

All of us looked about at each other with bemused and quizzical looks.

The thought had come to me that the story sounded rather more like a fairy tale than an authentic historical account. That fact that _three _of the Court's strongest Men had made the attempt seemed to give that away, for do not things in fairy tales always come in threes? But I supposed I was perhaps being over-suspicious. I told myself that much in my own life of late must have the sound of a fairy story, too. Perhaps Master Æshere's tale was fact, after all.

Uncle Imrahil must have been having similar thoughts. "I suppose," he mused, "it is no odder than any of the other wonders we have seen in these months past. When the Dark Lord is overthrown, the Captain-General comes back from the dead and the king is returned, why should we marvel at preternatural strength from a thinking tree?"

"Then who shall make the attempt?" asked Éomer King.

"I would do it," said Aragorn, "but that might not be for the best. If we are thinking that the tree bears some link to Lord Denethor, then I think I am not the best Man to attempt to move it."

My brother looked at me with the particular apologetic expression he gets when he's about to make a suggestion that he knows I will not like.

"I think it must be you, Boromir," he said. "You are he who first found the tree. And if this tree in some way belongs to Father, you are the Man he would wish to attempt this."

_Wonderful,_ I thought.

Faramir had been right; this absolutely was not anything I wanted to try. I thought, _That is all I need. If we plant this tree in the Courtyard and the blessed thing dies, then I'll have the burden of fearing that it's all my own fault. _But I told myself that I should not have to worry about that. Presumably the tree would only up and die on us if it did not want to be planted in the Courtyard. And if it did not want that, then theoretically it should be stuck firmly in the ground now and should require inhuman strength for anyone to move it.

Always assuming, of course, that this tale of Æshere's bore closer connection to reality than stories in which three brothers set out on a quest and the youngest gains victory through the aid of some fox kits, a cat, and a particularly polite band of bumblebees.

Lady Éowyn asked, "And if the Tree wishes not to be shifted, then will it remain here, and a guard be posted for it, as Prince Imrahil suggested?"

"I think it must be," said Aragorn. "If that is what the Tree wishes, then it must be so."

I sighed and said with no enthusiasm whatever, "All right. I will give it a try."

So it was that I knelt by the White Tree – feeling, of course, that I was more like to break the tiny thing than I was to successfully move it. Thinking a swift prayer to the Tree, to my father, and to whatever powers might be involved in this, I carefully touched my hand to the slender trunk.

I am not certain if I actually felt a shiver from the Tree itself, or if the shiver were my own. But it seemed that in the very instant I touched my hand to it, the tree shook loose from its ties to the earth. As though it had been only sitting upon the ground, not growing in it, the delicate interlaced tendrils of the roots came free. And there I knelt, with the White Tree of Gondor in my hand – and with an expression on my face that must surely have been laughable, had anyone been looking at me instead of staring at the Tree.

No one found any words at the first; not even Mithrandir, whom I would have expected at that point to say something portentous and meaningful. At last it was Imrahil who cleared his throat and said, "Well. I'd say that's a clear enough sign, if ever I heard of one."

Æshere the Herbmaster hastened forward with a cloth that he helped me to bind about the roots, to shield them and safeguard the earth that still clung to them.

Thus our party rode back to the White City, bearing with us a scion of the Eldest of Trees. And a nerve-wracking ride it was for me, holding that tiny burden before me.

Aragorn took my diatribe to heart. We planted the sapling beside the pale form of its predecessor. Master Æshere and a small army of herbmen and gardeners were in attendance to arrange the earth about it just _so_, as soon as I had gingerly set the tree into its painstakingly dug hole.

Æshere assured me that there should be no difficulty from planting the new tree so near to the old one. As the elder was dead, the roots of the young tree would meet no competition for the soil's resources. And as the young tree grew, some of its branches might indeed use the elder tree as an arbour to support their growth, as I had fancifully predicted in my heated speech to Aragorn.

The Herbmaster's assurances notwithstanding, it was with a twinge of trepidation that I crossed the Courtyard for weeks after that. Each time, I eyed the little tree with dread, fearing that I would see it standing withered and dry. But each time I did not, each time it yet grew – and five days after its planting, a second sprig of blossoms appeared upon one of the uppermost branches.

It was on that same day, five days from the planting of the Tree when the blossom first appeared, when I received a letter from the Lady Éowyn of Rohan.

I was in my office as the evening drew in, reading through yet another memorandum of concern and complaint from Captain Brithnoth of the Citadel Guard. As I sighed and pondered whether I needed to arrange another meeting with both the Captain and Aragorn, or if at this point it were sufficient simply to speak with Brithnoth myself, there came a quiet rapping at my office door.

Master Gavrilo bore with him a letter, and he said, "I would not have interrupted you, My Lord, but that I thought this letter might be one you would wish to see at once."

With alacrity he took his leave, and I understood why when I recognized the handwriting upon that missive. Presumably my seneschal thought that whatever the letter's contents, I might prefer privacy for whatever reaction it called forth from me.

As it turned out, my reaction was largely one of puzzlement – with, it is true, a fair admixture of consternation.

The Lady Éowyn's letter stated that she wished to meet with me upon the morrow. If I were at liberty in the afternoon following the Council session, she begged leave to visit me at my townhouse at the Eighth Hour. She believed, so the missive ran, that at that time she would be able to give me an answer to my suit.

Swiftly I penned my reply that I was at her disposal and I would meet with her as she requested. With that letter dispatched, I was left to ponder the lady's message.

I told myself I should not let it trouble me. I had already – off and on – more-or-less convinced myself that I had no real chance with the lady. Her letter did nothing to change the situation. It merely meant that this uncertainty would, thankfully, be ended; that I would be free to pursue my own life without being quite so on tenterhooks as to what shape that life would take.

Yet there was a puzzling aspect of the letter, which did not seem like the Lady Éowyn.

She must assuredly know, I thought, that such a message as this was certain to raise apprehensions in the heart of he who received it. It seemed not at all like her to so deliberately draw out her suitor's suffering. If she had made her decision, then why not simply inform me and finally be done with it?

A possibility occurred to me: that perhaps the main purpose of this notice to me was to impose discipline upon herself.

Perhaps she still had not yet made up her mind, but she could not endure the thought of this business dragging out any longer. Perhaps she had appointed a time to give me her answer, so that she would be forced to choose an answer for herself.

I wondered if she had sent equivalent letters to Faramir and Merry, but I did not think I could ask them. With Faramir, this probably fell into the forbidden category of speaking with each other about our courtships. And I very much doubted that Merry would currently speak to me about anything, leave alone any question that touched upon the Lady Éowyn.

Grimly I endeavoured to put the morrow's appointment from my mind. I attempted to work, I attempted to take my daymeal, and ever and anon I found my thoughts wandering, I found my speculations skimming through the many possible shapes of the next day's conversation. And I found, to my irritation, that my heartbeat raced at a ridiculously elevated pace, and my stomach was twisting itself in knots.

_I have to do something, _I thought, _or I shall be a gibbering wreck by morning._

I told myself that I would go to the River.

As usual when I thought of one of the pastimes we had shared, I wished that Svip were here. But I was determined not to let that stop me. He was not here, and I could not let his absence trap me into doing nothing.

I wished he were here, but it did not matter. I would go to the Great River, and perhaps contact with its waters would give me a kind of calm, even as the exercise of a swim should satisfy my need to take _some_ sort of action.

I rode to Waterfront as the sun sank in the shadows of Mindolluin. Stubbornly I refused to let my thoughts dwell on the fact that I was riding an ordinary horse, instead of Svip, just as I fought not to think of the Lady Éowyn. Instead I set myself again to pondering the problem of Captain Brithnoth and his fellow dissatisfied Citadel Guards.

_To blazes with it, _I thought, as I handed my horse over to the guard at the stable and strode across the cobblestones of Waterfront. _We should send all the Citadel Guard _and _all of Aragorn's Rangers off to his northern forests together. Let the Guards of the Citadel serve as apprentice Rangers for a while, and let them get to know their new colleagues thus, without needing me to nursemaid them every step of the way! What else are we to do, hold a tea party for them and let them chat politely over the plates of scones?_

_No, _I thought, _never mind the scones. Let us just send the lot of them to the tavern and let them drown their differences in some barrels of good ale._

Only that wasn't likely to work either, was it? The blessed fellows were more like to segregate themselves at different tables until they were drunk, and then when they _were _drunk enough, to get into a general fist-fight.

Maybe that wasn't so bad an idea, I thought as I swam upriver to the outskirts of Waterfront, then turned around and swam back again. Perhaps the next day in the midst of their split lips, broken noses and regiments-wide embarrassment, the Citadel Guards and the northern Rangers would decide to be friends after all.

I reached the southernmost edge of the Harlond and dove down to the bottom of the River. Striking back upward again, I started on another lap upriver.

Thinking of sending the Guards and the Rangers to a tavern together made me contemplate a visit to the Orc's Head. I had not yet been back there since the day of our evacuation of Waterfront. I thought I would like to drop in to visit Ivarr and his family. And knocking back a couple of pints would postpone the time when I must return to my townhouse and again attempt to avoid my troublesome thoughts.

I decided that I would swim to the north end of town, then back to the south, and that on my next trip upriver, I would get out and visit the tavern. Having just been through an invasion of Easterlings, Southrons and Orcs, I thought that Ivarr's common room could probably withstand getting dripped upon by a wet Captain-General.

And then of a sudden something barrelled into me. Amid the splashes and by the light of the quayside lanterns, as I spluttered and trod water, I found myself staring into a long, grinning and very familiar face.

I shouted, "Svip!"


	28. Chapter 28: At the Orc's Head

_Author's Note:_

Greetings to all! I am posting this chapter on the ninth anniversary of when I first posted Chapter One. And, barring disasters, the tale should certainly be completed before the tenth anniversary, which would be April 2, 2012. There is only one more chapter remaining – a cause for a little regret, perhaps, but also for celebration! I have certainly been enjoying finally getting to complete some of the story arcs I began so many years ago.

This chapter, of course, brings the answer to a hotly-debated question. My regrets to those who don't like the answer! And to those who wish things had gone one particular other way, I'll remind you that, as Scarlett O'Hara tells us, tomorrow is another day …

As before stated, I'm not a poet, so the songs in this chapter are freely lifted from other sources. At the end of the chapter I'm including end notes to the songs, including potential sources of recordings, in case anyone wants to track them down and listen to the soundtrack for this chapter. (On the subject of these songs, I have utterly failed to get there to be paragraph breaks between stanzas in the uploaded version of this chapter. So I apologize to everyone for your having to contend with all-stanzas-run-together songs.)

Thank you again for reading – and I hope you enjoy!

_Chapter Twenty-Eight__:_

_At the Orc's Head_

Shouting, laughing, and slapping each other on the back, we splashed about like a pair of exceptionally exuberant seals. Or perhaps Svip was the seal, and I was a sea lion instead. I saw both creatures once as a child when we went to visit Uncle Imrahil, and certainly in my bulk I bear more resemblance to the latter animal.

Through the splashes I yelled delightedly, "Svip, what are you doing here?"

"I came back!" was his reply.

We would never manage any extended conversation while we were still frolicking in the River. So, rather reluctantly, I suggested that we head for shore. "Let's go back to the dock," I said, "and you can tell me everything."

We were near enough to our usual stairs, so we made for them. When we were again seated there as we had been so many times before, it seemed as though these weeks with Svip away had never taken place.

But of course they had taken place, and full many an event of importance had transpired within them. Despite my urging that he should tell me his story, Svip prevailed upon me to first tell him of all that had been happening in Minas Tirith.

He frowned whenever I spoke of Aragorn, but that seemed to be all that was left of the black mood that had dogged him before he left for home. He was too excited to hold still for long, and he kept bounding up and down the steps, jumping into the water to paddle a little as I talked, and then racing back up again to sit for a moment on the step beside me.

When, with regret, I told him of my falling-out with Merry, Svip shook his head and said contemplatively, "This mating business is an awful bother, isn't it? I suppose you Men and the Hobbits don't seem to mind it as much as we do. But there's still something to be said for just getting it over with once, and then never having to worry about it again."

"You may be right, at that," I said, grinning. "But from what you've told me of your people, it seems you have more of a guarantee that you'll succeed in producing offspring with that one meeting. We often have to work at it longer. And we like to have more than one child. With that in mind, it makes sense to find a spouse with whom you've got some chance of getting along."

"I suppose," was his dubious reply. "But it does seem to cause a lot of trouble."

I told my small green friend of the next day's scheduled meeting with Lady Éowyn. His first comment was a cheerful, "Oh, well, at least it will be over, then." But then he scampered up to the step on which I sat, where he crouched beside me and said earnestly, "I hope what you want to happen, will happen."

"Thank you, Svip," said I. "The difficulty lies in knowing what I want to happen. Now," I went on, "it's your turn. You haven't yet told me anything of your voyage."

So he launched into his tale in as rambling and excitable a fashion as anything I remembered from the earliest days of our friendship. His words raced through the story of his journey north with Cirion's Rangers. The mention of the fact that they'd only once seen a group of what they assumed to be Orcs, in the distance on the eastern shore and heading east, was randomly interspersed with observations on the types of water plants they'd encountered and renditions of the campfire songs he had learned from various of the Rangers.

He told me that they had stayed about a week at his house below the Rauros Falls. "My house is still there," he said, "and it seems fine. I couldn't see that it had started to wither at all, yet. I guess that can't be helped now, though," he added. "I wonder how long it'll take for it to start."

Before I could ask him about that, he hastened onward. He told me that Holgar had visited Svip's house with him several times, the young soldier valiantly enduring the trip to the bottom of the River riding on the back of the horse-shaped Svip. Perhaps Holgar's heritage as one of a family of fishermen made him more at ease with the water than were his fellow Rangers, or perhaps his trust in the safety of the venture was simply born from the invincible naïveté of youth. For their part, the other Rangers had declined with thanks Svip's repeated offers to take them to visit his home. Buslai had been particularly vehement in declining, saying that he had no desire to die by drowning twice.

When it came to talking of his decision to return to Minas Tirith, Svip consistently shied away from the subject. He would merely say that he'd made up his mind to come back, and once he added, "I'll tell you more about it later."

"You are back," I said, "that is what matters. Come to my house for the daymeal. We'll see what Dame Weltrude can create for us as a feast of celebration."

At the stable by the Harlond Gate we met Svip's party of Anórien Rangers. Thorolf, Buslai, Holgar and their comrades greeted me boisterously. But they were a little shame-faced about their horses, which I soon saw were burdened down with makeshift packs that had clearly been fashioned out of miscellaneous cloths from Svip's collection.

"I know what you'll say, My Lord," admitted Thorolf, as I looked at him severely. "We should not have so burdened the horses; we should have still travelled light in case we encountered the enemy and had need for sudden speed of movement. You are right, of course. But I vow to you, we were ready to cut the packs free at an instant's notice. It is just that none of us wanted Svip to abandon all of his treasures. He looked so mournful when he spoke of it, even though he said it was more important to see you again. So we volunteered to carry a few of his things back with us."

"I'll forgive you the impracticality of the decision for this once," I told him, smiling, "since it was for the sake of helping Svip."

When we reached my townhouse courtyard and the footmen were unloading Svip's multitude of packs, the water creature asked in hesitation, "Will it be all right if I stay in your house, now? Maybe Aragorn wouldn't mind if I still slept in the Fountain. But I just don't like to do that, any more. It wouldn't feel the same, with your father gone."

Readily I agreed. Svip picked out new quarters for himself, in one of the guest chambers that was nearest to my rooms. The footmen carried his packs there, and, at Svip's direction, deposited them in a pile that reminded me of a smaller-scale version of his home beneath Rauros. The maids Sigyn and Bettris then escorted Svip to our laundry, where he picked out one of the largest washtubs to use as his bed.

Dame Weltrude greeted the news of Svip's return with a grin as broad as though he were her own wayfaring child who had found his way home. But the return of Svip's party had a further meaning for Weltrude's family. The good woman asked of me rather warily, "I did not see Master Holgar with the Rangers who brought Master Svip's luggage. I trust he has made it back safely?"

"He has, Dame Weltrude," I assured her. "As soon as he is off-duty, we can expect to see him here to pay Sigyn his respects." In fact, I happened to know that Holgar, in the vanity of youth, had begged to be excused from escorting the horses and packs to my townhouse, so that Sigyn would not see him until he'd had the opportunity to remove the grime of travel.

The Mistress of my Kitchen gave a grim nod and departed, with the half-resigned and half-worried look of the mother who prays for her daughter's happiness and who vows bitter vengeance if the girl is hurt.

Dame Weltrude showed her pleasure at the water being's return in the flair with which she prepared a dish to which she would have scorned to set her name a month or two before. She presented him with two whole raw fish, garnished with all the fresh greens on which she could lay her hands. To my relief, however, Weltrude's new enthusiasm for Svip's culinary tastes did not extend too far, and she did still cook my fish. For me it was a second daymeal, like the Hobbits' second breakfast, for I had aimlessly picked at an earlier version of that meal before setting out for my swim.

Throughout the meal Svip seemed nigh bursting with excitement, as though he itched to tell me something and was holding himself back for the fun of drawing out the suspense. At last, when we had polished off the fish and retired to armchairs by the fireplace to finish a bottle of wine, Svip jumped down from his chair and said, "I've got something to show you. I'll be right back."

He scuttled away and was, indeed, back in only as much time as it must have taken him to race to his new quarters and back again. And the object that he lugged with him made me leap to my feet and nearly upset my goblet.

I cried out, "My pack!"

Svip beamed as I wonderingly accepted the rucksack from him and set it onto the table. He said, "Faramir told me about it just before I left. He said you'd asked him about it, and you hadn't seen any sign of it with your things in my house. So the Rangers and I took a hike up the old stairs, to where you had your battle."

With a suddenly far more serious look, my friend went on.

"It is really something," he said. "Of course the scavengers have been at it, and I think probably some of the other Orcs that have been travelling through there took some of the equipment and armour for themselves. But it is still something to see. You should have seen how all of the Rangers' eyes got wide when they saw all those corpses. Even Thorolf was impressed. You killed a _lot_ of Orcs."

"I didn't kill all of them," I reminded him. "Legolas and Gimli and Aragorn all got their share."

"Yes," he agreed, "but the pile there by the tree, that must be where you fell …" He shook his head then and repeated, "There are a lot."

_Yes, _I thought, _and I got myself killed, and I couldn't save Pippin and Merry from getting captured._ But Svip was hurrying on again, and I did not let myself linger in those memories.

Svip said, "Your pack was still in the spot where you must have camped for the night. It was under the trees there, and it was partly sheltered by a big rock, so the weather didn't get it nearly as much as it might have. Some animals did get in to it," he went on, pointing out a ragged hole in the canvas. "You can see where they chewed through, to get whatever food you had in it."

I nodded, touching my fingers to the hole and wondering what the animals of Parth Galen may have thought of the Elves' _lembas_ waybread.

He went on, "I don't know if anything's missing, of course, but it doesn't look like much was damaged. Only a few of the papers got chewed a little, when the animals were going after the food."

"Svip, you're a marvel," I said. "Thank you! I never thought I'd see these things again."

"Faramir's the marvel," he countered. "He's the one who remembered to ask me to look for this."

I spread the various documents out on the table and gazed at them. There, I was more than glad to see, were what seemed to be all of the histories I had copied out for Faramir: lengthy excerpts from the _Great Chronicle of Númenor_, and Queen Tar-Ancalimë's history of the War of the Jewels, and Elrond's own account of the battles of the Last Alliance, and a couple of dozen other ancient works. I grinned as I noticed a few of the places in which my handwriting got steadily worse, as I'd started to fall asleep over the history books. There also, only slightly damaged by the teeth of the _lembas_-chewing animals, were the many maps I had copied to add to my own collection.

I smiled and shook my head a little as I looked over the maps one by one, remembering my laborious visits to Elrond's library in those ridiculous two months we spent lingering in Imladris rather than making some progress on our voyage before the snow flew.

_That was only six months ago, _I thought. It seemed impossible to believe. For a moment the thought hit me with almost physical force of how much had changed since those days. Friendships forged – and perhaps lost – Sauron's power overthrown, the return of the king to Gondor, my own death and return. And the death of my father. And now, supposedly, the dawning of a new Age.

I contemplated what to do next. My first impulse was to go at once to Faramir and give to him all of these histories. But the thought came to me again that I might be the only one of us with whom Éowyn had formally appointed a meeting upon the morrow. If Faramir did not know of her approaching answer, I did not want to condemn him to the same anxiety with which I was wrestling. And he would assuredly realise that something was afoot, for I would not be able to keep it from my face when I looked at him.

So instead Svip and I together studied the maps. As the wine in the bottle grew lower and the hour grew later, I showed him the routes of my campaigns, and he showed me the lands he had travelled in his youth, in the days of the Old Wars. When at last we retired – I to my bed and Svip to his washtub – I was almost tired enough and joyous enough over Svip's return not to be troubled by thoughts of Éowyn's answer.

That relative peace did not survive the next morning.

I am certain we talked of _something _in that morning's Council session, but I could not begin to say now what topics were discussed. Svip had declined my invitation to attend the Council with me, for which I did not blame him in the slightest. He went instead to see if he could be of assistance at the Office of Rehousing. I think his desire to avoid stepping on my toes while I was on tenterhooks over Éowyn likely played as large a part in that decision as did his wish to avoid the potential tedium of the meeting, or to avoid encountering Aragorn.

Somehow I managed to remain at least sane – although I was certainly not calm – until the afternoon and the arrival of the Eighth Hour.

I was waiting in my courtyard, speaking with my seneschal Gavrilo of his daughter's suitor young Holgar. I believe I was able to answer most of his questions about the young soldier's family background. But in the midst of one of my answers he bowed and hastily departed, when the White Lady of Rohan strode into the courtyard.

I would say that she had not passed a restful night, from the wan and haunted look about her. Her attendant the Rider Fréaláf lingered a few paces behind her, looking even more uncomfortable with this assignment than usual. Fréaláf and my esquire Balamir went to sit on the bench outside my stables, while Éowyn and I, after a brief discussion of whether she would prefer this interview to be held in- or out-of-doors, walked over to stand beside the courtyard's well.

I ordered myself not to try and read anything from her expression. She would likely look equally troubled regardless of whom she had chosen to accept and whom to reject, from the knowledge of the unhappiness she must inflict upon two of her suitors.

"My Lord Boromir," she said, gazing steadily at me, "you must know that this has been no easy decision for me to make. I would that it had been. It is easier by far to avoid an admirer whose attentions are plainly unworthy, than it is to choose between three gentlemen who are valiant, noble, and kind, and all of whom I consider to be my friends."

Her use of the word "friend" at this juncture made me very nearly convinced that her answer to me would be "no." I said, "I know that, Lady. I am sorry to have placed this burden upon you."

Éowyn drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and said to me, "My Lord, you are the first to whom I have spoken of this. I must tell you that I have determined to accept none of my suitors."

Through the feeling of shock and pain that lanced coldly through me, I thought that in all my imagining of our possible fates, this was one possibility I had never truly considered.

Quietly I said, "I see. I thank you, My Lady, for your consideration, and for the time that you have given to me. I have treasured those hours we have passed together, and I will continue to treasure their memory."

"I also have treasured them," she answered, with a faint smile. "I regret that those hours must cease, now that your suit must be at its end."

I would not have known what to say to her then, save only to wish her the Valar's speed. But she spoke again, "My Lord, I ask your pardon for any disquiet I may have caused to you by appointing this meeting. If the truth be told, I did so to force a choice upon myself. I knew that if I appointed with one of you three a time to give my decision, then my pride would not allow me further delay. And – with no disrespect to Master Meriadoc or to your Lord brother – I judged that of the three, you would be best able to endure the waiting."

I smiled and said, "I am honoured that you think thus, Lady, and I am glad to have been of service."

The irony did not escape me that I had been precisely right, the day before, when I had tried to discern her motives. It seemed that I had, against all the odds, gained some understanding of the workings of the lady's mind. But if she was not to be my wife, nor even my sister-in-law, then that understanding would do no one any good.

Lady Éowyn continued, "If you will let me … I should like to tell you something of what has led to my decision."

"You owe no explanation," I said, "to me or to anyone. The choice has always been yours. That is the only explanation we need: that it is the choice you have made."

"I know that," she said, looking at me with steadfast, earnest gaze. "But after everything that we have been through together – I want you to understand."

She spoke, then, and I listened, both us leaning back against the well, in a seemingly casual pose that belied the intensity of her words.

She said, "Of all the admirable qualities that the three of you share, I think the one most deeply a part of all of you is your love for your homelands. That love, perhaps, is the strongest of all in you, My Lord Boromir. The love of Gondor shines forth from you like _mithril_. Your love for Gondor's people and for the White City; your determination to fight for them, to improve the lives of your people in all the ways that you can find … My Lord, the circumstances of your return that have left you bound to the Great River may drive you to distraction; it may madden you that you can no longer go to Gondor's aid wherever she is in need. But that restriction which holds you here now has perhaps done no more than echo in bodily form the link which already bound you to this place in your soul."

While I pondered what to make of those statements, and whether there was anything I could say in reply, the Lady of Rohan went on.

"That love is part of Lord Faramir, as well. It perhaps may speak more quietly in him – as," she added with the hint of an impish smile, "does indeed almost everything about him! But it burns just as brilliantly. His duties as Steward he has embraced with the fervour, devotion and intensity that he brings to all he undertakes. But more than that devotion – gleaming in him as the love of Minas Tirith does in you – is his passion for the forests of Ithilien. He speaks of their flowered glades as you speak of the towers and streets and walls of the White City. To hear him speak of wandering down those forested pathways, of watching the moonlight play upon the tresses of a waterfall – one would think almost that he has a link to that place like the one that binds you to the realm of the Great River.

"And Merry …" she began, then she paused with a sigh. "It is hardest to speak of him. For he is trying so hard, so fiercely. He is trying with such passion to erase the Shire from his soul, to replace it with Rohan, and with me. But it is still there. And it tears at his heart, to think that in order to win his dream, he must pry loose from himself the love that has been part of him since his birth. That instead of hearing the singing of the Brandywine, and watching the fish jump in its sunlit waters, 'home' must now mean for him an outpost on our mountaintops, and the whispering of the grasses upon our plains.

"My Lord," she said, "I have learned much of the three of you; I have learned the strength of the links which bind you to the lands that hold your hearts. But in hearing you speak of those lands – in hearing you speak of them while I, myself, am far from my homeland – I have learned that those chains of _mithril_ are just as strong in myself. Even as you love the White City, as Faramir loves Ithilien, as Merry loves the banks of the Brandywine, so, too, is my heart bound to Rohan. As your spirit is restored atop the Tower of Ecthelion, so is mine when I can gaze over the rooftops of Edoras, or stand at the very edge of the Firienfeld, with the Snowbourn coursing far below me. As Lord Faramir loves to wander the depths of Ithilien's woods, so do I long to race against the wind across our endless plains. As Merry, despite all of his efforts, dreams of lying back against the flowered riverbank smoking his pipe and counting the circles in the troutpools, so is it my dream to sit atop a rise where my horse and I are the only creatures visible from one horizon to the other, to smell the grasses and to watch as the clouds wend their way through the vastness of the sky."

The lady spoke, "I could not ask any of you to leave the lands that you love – even if that were possible. For you and for Lord Faramir, it is not. The River has ensured that for the one of you; the Stewardship decrees it for the other. Only for Merry is it even a possibility; yet how could I ask him to give up his homeland for the sake of a woman who doubts that she could ever replace for him all that he has sacrificed?

"I could not ask such a sacrifice from any of you. Yet were I to become your wife, would not the same sacrifice be expected of me? If I am to be the wife that each of you deserves, then my future, my dreams, my fate must become linked with yours. And I find that I cannot promise that it would be so. I find that I cannot see a future with any of you based more upon hope than upon regret. And I will not seek to build your future or mine upon such a crumbling foundation. Each of you deserves better far than that. And," she added, pride and defiance in her gaze, "so also do I."

It will come as no surprise when I relate that, at the first, I was without an answer. I said to her at last, "Lady, I seek not to undervalue your words, or seem to discount anything that you have spoken. Yet I feel I can safely say that – did you decide that for other reasons you wished to marry one of us – I am certain each one of us would gladly seek with you a way to build a marriage that could endure, while yet not compelling you to sacrifice your homeland. Either Faramir or I, I am sure, would freely consent to you dividing your time between Gondor and Rohan. And with Merry, could not you and he divide your time equally, maintaining dwellings both in Rohan and in the Shire?"

"Aye," she answered, with a melancholy smile. "Aye, My Lord, I am sure that some such thing would be possible. But it is not enough. I will become the wife of no one if the greater part of my heart is elsewhere. Such a marriage would become nothing but a cage, and both my husband and I would be trapped within it. I value all of you too greatly to condemn you to that. And I will not so condemn myself."

I could do nothing then save to bow my head in acknowledgement of her decision. For I found that, at that moment, I did not trust my voice enough to speak.

She looked, of a sudden, very nervous and very young, and her smile took on a decidedly sickly tinge. She said, "I thank you, My Lord, for your patience in listening to me. I have hoped that being able to put these things into words for you, would make it easier to speak to the other two. Yet I fear that in no way will it be easy. It has been difficult enough to tell this to you. I find that my heart quails as I seek the courage to tell these things to them."

The Lady Éowyn looked so forlorn as she spoke that, that on an impulse I reached out and clasped both of her hands in mine. It was an irony of our situation that such a gesture of tenderness would have been past the bounds of respectability, while I was still officially her suitor.

I said to her, "My Lady, I will take the liberty of making one further suggestion. I would suggest that if it fills you with such dread to tell them of your decision, then perhaps there is one of them whom you do not wish to reject."

"I do not wish to reject any of you," she told me. "But neither do I wish to accept any one of you."

"That is the answer, then," said I, "and there is not much that can be said to that."

With a sudden wistfulness in her face and voice, the lady added, "Mayhap there will someday be a Man of Rohan, whose dreams will become the same as mine."

"I am certain that there will, Lady," I answered. "For the Men of Rohan are not, for the most part, either stupid or blind."

"No," she agreed, a hint of amusement in her smile. "Not for the most part."

She took another deep breath, tightened her hands around mine, and then took her hands away. "Wish me courage, then, My Lord," she said.

"I will wish you good fortune," I said, "in this as in all things. But I need not wish you courage, for that you have in abundance."

I suppose she would have departed then. But she frowned of a sudden and looked at me with a quizzical expression, as though she had read something in my face which she wished to decipher. And in truth, over those last moments I had been pondering a question which I suppose became only too visible on my countenance.

"There is something you would ask me," she said. "Speak! For I would have nothing left unanswered between us."

"Nay, Lady," I told her. "It is a question better left unspoken, and better still un-thought."

"Yet I would hear it," she persisted. "Speak, My Lord; I vow to you there will be no ill result of your honesty."

"You cannot make that vow. The question is unworthy of our friendship, and I would not have that friendship destroyed by words that I did not wish to speak."

Again she insisted, "But I would hear it," with a stubborn tone and expression that I am certain must make her Lord brother want to tear out his hair.

Sighing, with a feeling of impending doom, I gave in to her insistence, all the while telling myself that I was a madman to sacrifice her good opinion of me for a question that I knew better than to ask.

"Very well, Lady of Rohan," I said heavily, "and I ask you to remember that it was you who would not let the matter lie. Understand that I do not doubt any of what you have told me of the reasons for your decision. But the question that whispered to my mind – unworthy though it be – is whether another reason that you choose to accept none of your suitors may be because some portion of your esteem is bestowed upon another Man, one who has not sought your hand."

That, I told myself, was all that I could say, and even that was by a very great deal too much. No importunity of hers would wring from me the confession that I suspected she had once set her heart upon Aragorn, or that it was Merry who had confided to me the clues to that secret.

At the first it seemed as though all my dire expectations were to be confirmed. Haughty anger sparked on her face, and I thought to myself, _Well, are you satisfied now, you idiot? You _knew _you should not say that to her; why in the bloody blue blazes could you not hold your tongue?_

But then she surprised me, for her anger faded as swiftly as it had appeared. She even smiled, with an air suddenly more light-hearted than anything I could have imagined of her, in the midst of the duty she had before her.

"No," she said, once more placing her hand on mine. "That is not one of the reasons. You cured me of that, my dear friend. You cured me of that when you proved to me that it is possible for a gallant gentleman whom I admire, to admire me in return."

And with that she took her departure, seemingly a good deal lighter of step than when she had arrived, with the hapless Rider Fréaláf trailing in her wake.

_Well, _I thought. _So that is that._

It occurred to me that it is with very mixed feelings that a Man hears the lady he has hoped to wed refer to him as her friend.

I would be hard-pressed to say what emotions held sway in me as I stood there. Regret, I suppose, standing side-by-side with relief. Although, if I am truly honest, I will admit that regret had a far greater hold on me than did relief.

_Damn__ation, _I thought. _Poor Faramir and Merry!_

Little though I enjoyed being rejected myself, it was more painful still to think of my brother and my friend hearing that same verdict.

I walked over to young Balamir, who was standing now at the stable door and watching me with an apprehensive look. Not too brusquely, I hope, I thanked the boy for his assistance and told him that he might return to his regular duties. Then I set about some regular duties of my own, in this case betaking myself to the Citadel to speak with various of Brithnoth's Guardsmen about their interactions with Aragorn's Rangers.

Some, like Beregond the father of Pippin's friend Bergil, had a view both balanced and reasonable. Beregond and several of his fellows were ready to accept these newcomers among them in good comradeship, and with a minimum of grousing. Many others, however, were far more of their Captain's frame of mind. I was beginning to think that it would take another Siege of Minas Tirith to breed in these Men any spirit of comradeship, through their shared peril.

When an hour and more had passed in these conversations, I judged that the messenger of ill tidings must by now have departed from Faramir.

Deep in pondering, I went in search of my brother the Steward.

I would be an untrue friend toward the Lady Éowyn, I knew, did I attempt to dissuade her from a decision which she so clearly believed to be the right one. But could I not still hope that, in time, she might come to believe that mayhap one of her former suitors warranted a bit more thought?

Faramir, I knew full well, would be inclined to wring my neck for me if I attempted anything so interfering as matchmaking. But I could not help but remember the longing in his gaze and in his voice when he and I first spoke of wooing Éowyn. I could not help but recall how unconvincing had been his denial, when I asked him if he was in love with her.

_For his sake, _I thought, _I am not quite yet willing to accept that the final chapter in this tale has been written._

As I had expected, I found my brother at work in his office in the White Tower. When I arrived, he did not at once look up from the document he was writing. I sought to quiet in myself the niggling thought of how similar this reception was to the countless times I had waited on our father in this same office, when he would invariably finish whatever he was working on before deigning to acknowledge me.

But when Faramir did break off writing, it was in a manner that served to swiftly dispel those memories.

"Damn it," he murmured, setting down his quill and gazing accusingly at the paper before him. "I shall have to write all of this again. I suppose I've no business trying to write anything now; my words are as muddled as my thoughts."

I started hurriedly toward him, and he met me part-way across the room. As we clasped each other's arms, we both spoke nearly at once. I said, "I wish she had chosen you," and he told me, "She should have chosen you."

"No," I said, "she shouldn't have. Not if she didn't want to. The last thing I need is an unhappy wife."

He nodded at that. The expression on his own countenance was so unhappy as he did so, that it hit me like a knife in the gut.

"Yes," he said. "And so that is that."

"It doesn't have to be," I said suddenly, even though I knew he would thank me not at all for saying this. "If you love her, Faramir, then you should not give up hope. You should wait for her, and you should fight for her, in whatever way you have to. Do not let this be the end of it."

He cast me a look of bitter disdain. "That is no advice to give to me," he snapped. "Did not Father always tell us not to waste time in dreaming of things that can never be? He said many another thing for which I do not thank him, but in this, I think that he was right. It is over; she has given her answer. And there _is_ an end to it."

I held out my hands in submission to his words, and answered, "If you say so."

"I do say so," he said flatly, eyeing me with suspicion. "And don't you think of trying anything, Boromir! I do not want to find out that you've been meddling in this. If you've got some sort of scheme to play matchmaker for your little brother, just put it out of your mind! What was all that fine talk about how we could not do anything to take the decision from her, if we're going to ignore her now that she _has _made the decision?"

I protested, "What do you think I am going to try? She and Éomer are like to return to Rohan soon. Do you think I could follow her there to sing the praises of your merits as a husband? I have news for you, little brother; Rohan is not within ten miles of the Great River."

_But, _added my thoughts, _there is nothing to stop me from writing to her from time to time, as her friend … and it would be perfectly natural for me to include in those letters frequent updates upon the life of my Lord brother the Steward. _

_I won't say a thing to her about how I think she ought to marry him. So that will not count as matchmaking, will it? _

Faramir was studying me with narrowed eyes. "I still think you are plotting something," he declared. "Have done with it! Leave it alone, brother; leave _her _alone. That is an order."

"Yes, My Lord Steward," I said, bowing to him.

My brother gave an exasperated sigh and strode back to the desk, where he sat down, picked up the quill, and then flung it down again on the desktop.

"Well?" he demanded. "Is there anything else I can do for you? I do have rather a lot of work to do."

I could not help smiling a little at that. His very un-Faramir-like surliness seemed to confirm for me my diagnosis that his heart was more deeply involved in the quest for Éowyn's hand than he would ever be willing to admit. But just at that moment, I had something else in mind, besides my conviction that somehow there must still be a way for Éowyn of Rohan to realise that my brother was indeed the Man for her.

"I know you've got work to do," I told him. "We all of us have work to do. But just now, we have a more important duty to consider."

"I cannot wait to hear this," he groaned. "Tell me, O my wise brother. What duty do we face that is so bloody important?"

"Tonight," I said, "we need to go out and get drunk."

"For the Valar's sakes!" he exclaimed, looking as though he would like to evict me bodily from the room.

"No, Faramir, I am serious," I said, crossing to him and sitting on the edge of the desk. "Listen to me; you, Merry and I need to go out and commemorate this as it deserves. An important chapter in all of our lives has just closed, even though it has not closed as any of us wished." _And never mind, _I thought, _my new-found determination that it may not, in fact, be closed as far as Faramir's chances are concerned. _"We cannot let this go by without bidding our hopes a proper farewell. What we need tonight is a good old-fashioned booze-up."

"Oh, is that what we need," he snorted. "And here I was thinking that I should try to make a dent in my latest mountain of paperwork."

"You said it yourself," I argued, "you are not in any frame of mind just now to do the work properly. Set it aside for this once. Let us go out tonight and drink to the end of a dream. You can be the Steward again tomorrow. Tonight we are three rejected suitors, and there is many a bottle waiting for us to empty it."

"Splendid advice, My Lord Captain-General," said he. "So tomorrow I shall be the Steward with a raging headache and a mouth that tastes like bilge-water."

"I think we can all handle the headaches and the bilge-water. Are they not better than being left tonight with nothing to do but think?"

Scathingly he remarked, "Not all of us are as opposed to thinking as you are." But by that time, he was really only arguing for the sake of form. He crumpled up the paper in front of him and threw it at me, and I caught it and started idly tossing it in my hand.

"Very well!" said my brother. "Against all of my better judgement, I will once again allow my big brother to corrupt me. So, what is your plan? To what den of iniquity are you luring us?"

"The Orc's Head," I answered. "I promised Ivarr before the battle that I would bring all of my friends for a drink at his place if the City survived at the end of it. And I've not yet managed to do that." I paused for a moment in thought, then said, "Meet me at my stable at one hour past the sunset. That should give you time to plough through a little of the paperwork, if you still feel that you need to."

"Very much obliged to you," he said. He asked me then, "You're going in search of Merry now?"

I nodded, and Faramir advised with a sombre expression, "Then be careful."

I thought to myself, _Damn, but I do hate it when my little brother tells me to be careful._ But I knew it was childish to pay any heed to that old irritation. Our present case was one in which very great care was needed indeed.

"I will be careful," I said. "Merry will have been hurt by this enough. He does not need any more hurt."

"Nor do you," said Faramir.

"Except for the hurt of the hangover," I said. "That, I decidedly do need."

At last I saw a bit of a smile from him. It wasn't much of one, but at least it was something.

"Whom are you inviting along?" he asked.

"All four Hobbits, of course, and Legolas and Gimli. And Svip."

That last name elicited from him a broader grin. "He is doing better, you told me?" Faramir questioned. We had only had the time for the briefest discussion of Svip's return, before that morning's Council session.

"Worlds better. He is almost his old self again. Thank you for asking him to look for my pack! Some time I will bring to you all of those histories I slaved over copying in Elrond's library."

"I'll look forward to seeing them," he said. "Perhaps when we have recovered from the hangovers."

"I don't know," said I, "perhaps Númenorean histories will be just the thing to help you get over the bilge-water."

I stood then, about to leave, when Faramir asked me, "You're not asking Aragorn or Mithrandir along?"

My expression must have been eloquent of my reaction to that. He frowned and said quickly, "No, of course not. Stupid of me. I only thought of it since the rest of your Fellowship are on the guest list. But you want to go out drinking with your friends, not on an official progress with the King."

"And," I said, "I would like to retain the good will of Ivarr and his customers. It would be no good turn on my part, if I were to bring the King descending upon them. I hardly believe most of Ivarr's regulars would be much inclined to visit the place, if they think that any time they turn around they might find the new King of Gondor swigging a pint in the common room."

Faramir said again, "Of course not," with a thin smile. "Forget that I said it. You go on and find Merry."

He turned his attention then to the papers stacked in front of him. Once again I fought against a twinge of discomfort as I thought of how much that reminded me of the way our father usually dismissed me at the end of an interview.

I said, trying to cover up that moment of unease, "Don't you stand me up, brother, do you hear me? I know what you're like. I don't want to find that you've got so caught up in your work you've forgotten to meet us. I'm warning you; I will abduct you to get you to the tavern if I have to."

He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "You won't have to," he said, as he picked up again the document he'd been working on when I arrived. Glancing to me again with the faintest of smiles, he added, "You run along now, big brother."

Thinking that this encounter could have been a great deal worse, I set out to seek Meriadoc Brandybuck.

As it transpired, the search was not a long one. I had no sooner stepped into the Courtyard of the White Tree than someone hailed me by name.

Looking over toward the Prow of the City, I saw Pippin hastening across the Courtyard. I hurried to meet him, and as we drew near he asked me breathlessly, "You're looking for Merry?"

"Yes," I said, "is he all right?" It was a foolish question, I realised as I asked it. If he were not, then Merry's cousin would be a great deal less calm in his greeting to me.

"I guess he is," said Pippin. "He hasn't tried to do anything drastic yet." The young Hobbit gestured back at the Prow and said, "As soon as the lady left, he went to sit out there. And I haven't been able to get a word out of him since he got there."

As we made haste together toward the Prow, Pippin said, "I'm sorry about Lady Éowyn's decision. When we were heading out here, Merry told me she'd said 'no' to all of you. It's just about the only thing he's said, the whole time."

"Thank you," I answered. "At least shared rejection may make Merry less eager for my blood. That is what I am hoping for, anyhow."

"It probably will," opined Pippin. "Now we just have to make sure the crazy fellow doesn't throw himself off the edge."

We were close enough now that the whole of the Prow came into view, and I saw exactly what Pippin meant. Instead of sitting or standing on the bench carved into the Prow, Merry was perched atop the wall at its very tip, gazing across the River toward the mountains of the East. He sat with his legs within the wall, instead of dangling them over the edge, but I still had to quell in myself an immediate jolt of protective concern. I had to remind myself that he was a Hobbit grown, with an ordinary sense of balance, and that there was no particular reason for him to go toppling to his death.

"Merry?" called Pippin as we approached. "I found Boromir for you."

Merry turned to face us, with a distant, almost unseeing look. Pippin cleared his throat and said in forced cheerfulness, "I'll leave you two so you can talk. I'll be right over there if you need me." And he rapidly retraced his course to the stairs that lead up to the Prow from the Courtyard, where he sat down on the top step and did his best to look as though he wasn't keeping an eye on us.

I took up a station next to the bench, leaning upon the wall and gazing to the east. In a welcome recognition of the concern his cousin and I were feeling for him, Merry slid down from his precarious perch to stand upon the bench.

He was the first to speak. "How are you doing?" he asked me, his voice gruff.

"I have been better," I admitted. "You?"

"I have been better, too." There was a pause, then impulsively Merry said, "I am sorry about everything, Boromir. I'm sorry for what happened between us."

"Believe me, Merry," I told him, "I do not think you can possibly be more sorry about it than I am."

With a rueful little grin, he said, "Shall we have a fight about that? Maybe we should get into a duel over which one of us is the more sorry about it."

"No, we shall not," said I. "If I never fight with you again, it will be too soon."

Merry sighed, and for a moment he gazed again across the gleaming expanse of the White City and the River. "You've been to see Faramir already?"

I nodded. "Yes. I just left him."

"How is he doing?"

"About the same as we are, I suppose." _Whatever that actually means, _I added in my thoughts. _If nothing else, it means that there is a very great deal he is feeling, that he will never say._

The Hobbit mused, "I still can't believe she didn't pick one of you." He shook his head, observing, "It's always said that Hobbit lasses are difficult to understand. I suppose your womenfolk aren't any different."

"It is easy enough to understand why she wouldn't want to leave her homeland," I pointed out. "Unfortunately, none of us could offer enough to make up for that."

He nodded at that, and for some moments we were silent, each rapt in his own thoughts.

"You know," Merry reflected, "I never intended to court her. For weeks and weeks, I thought I would never try it. I thought she would just stay a beautiful dream, and I would leave it at that. But then … then things went on, and on, and she wasn't choosing either of you. I couldn't see why she didn't, but I thought, when it had been weeks and she hadn't picked either one of you, I thought maybe there was still a chance for someone else. I thought maybe there was a chance for me." With another, humourless grin, he said, "I guess this has answered that."

"You were right to try it, Merry," I said. "You were right not to trap yourself in always wondering what might have been."

He gave a grimace that I think was probably intended to be funny, and remarked, "At least she turned down the two of you, too. So I don't have to wonder if she just turned me down because of my height."

"No," I agreed, "that's true. She has told all three of us just exactly where we can stick ourselves. In the kindest possible terms, of course."

The Hobbit's little snort of strangled laughter was painfully close to a sob. But he forced his voice to steadiness as he said, "If I have to be rejected, Boromir, I can think of no two others in whose company I would rather be rejected." He tilted his head to one side and added contemplatively, "Which doesn't sound quite right, precisely. It's not that I _want_ the two of you to be rejected …"

"I am happy to be in your company," I said, "whatever the occasion. And speaking of occasions, I come bearing an invitation. I have twisted Faramir's arm into going out drinking with me tonight. Now we need you to say that you'll come along, too."

With a quizzical smile, Meriadoc asked, "You want me to go to the tavern with you?"

"I will brook no refusal," I answered. "It is not every day that two brothers and a friend are rejected by the same lady. We need to commemorate this in style. We'll ask Pippin, Frodo and Sam along, of course," I went on, "and Svip, although goodness knows what kind of stomach his people have for drinking. And I thought we'd ask Legolas and Gimli. We'll get them plastered and manoeuvre them into telling the stories of all their love affairs gone wrong. That should make us feel better. Well, if they've got any love affairs gone wrong. I don't know if Elves have those. Gimli must have some, anyway. Don't you think?"

Merry nodded, with a solemn expression. "With a face like that, he's got to have."

The both of us grinned, and I sent up a prayer of thanks that on this one front, at least, it seemed that all would be well.

"Come over here, Peregrin Took!" Merry called out. "You can stop skulking. It's all right; I'm not jumping off the Prow, and Boromir and I aren't killing each other."

When we had brought him up-to-date on our plans for the evening, a vastly relieved Pippin went in quest of the Elf and the Dwarf, to bear them our invitation. Merry, who was still, after all, the esquire of the King of Rohan, set out to see if there was work he could do to be of assistance to Éomer. And I turned my steps toward the Office of Rehousing, to put in a couple more hours of work, and to extend our invitation to Svip.

He and a detachment of our soldiers, it turned out, were out upon the Pelennor, distributing and setting up tents for the latest batch of our people of Anórien who were returning from the southern fiefdoms. As I joined them in this work, Svip listened in what seemed a combination of sympathy and relief to my brief rendition of our rejection by the lady. With a great deal more enthusiasm, he greeted my invitation to go drinking.

"I don't think I've ever been out drinking with Men or Hobbits before," he said, as he hauled from off a stack of tents a folded tent probably twice as heavy as he was. "Or with Dwarves, either, for that matter. I mean, I've had things to drink with you, of course. But never just to go drinking."

"Which brings up another question," I said. "Have you ever been drunk before?" Reaching the age of three thousand and some years without getting drunk seemed a remarkable record to me, but then, as we had many a time realised, Svip and I had lived very different lives.

"Oh, yes," answered Svip, disappearing briefly under the tent as he attempted to attach it to a pole, "but not often, and not for a long time now. I think the only times were with Elves on the road some times, when I went travelling when I was young."

"Well," I said then, feeling as though I were instructing some puppy-like recruit I had taken under my wing, "there's one thing that may be useful to keep in mind. I don't know whether your people get hangovers, but it seems reasonable to assume that you do. It often seems to help if you drink only the same kind of thing – only ale, or only wine, but not both." I grinned as I continued, "And when you find yourself adding a lot of whiskey at the end of the night, then you can bet you're in for a really rough morning." _Which knowledge, _I thought, _has not stopped me from doing precisely that, times without count._

As the hour for our appointment drew near, I thought now and again of Faramir's suggestion that we invite Aragorn and Mithrandir.

The mere fact that he'd thought I might, shamed me a little, by the knowledge that it had seemed natural to him, and it had never even occurred to me. Now that the suggestion had been made, I did feel rather churlish for so blatantly leaving out the Northman and the Wizard. I had to admit that in these weeks since his coronation – and in the days leading up to it – Aragorn had been by far more pleasant to work with than I would ever have imagined in those antagonism-ridden days of our journeying together. And, much though he tended to drive me up a tree, I knew full well that Mithrandir was a decent fellow. And according to the Hobbits, he did enjoy his pint – or ten.

_But, damn it, _I thought, _I just want to go out and drown my sorrows with some friends. I don't want to spend the evening tiptoeing around all my old tensions with Aragorn, and with the spectre of my father ever looming up between us. I don't want to hear Mithrandir launch into some endless anecdote of ancient times that will interest Aragorn, Faramir, Legolas and Frodo, and bore the rest of us to tears. For all the gods' sakes, I just want to have a little fun!_

And what I had said to Faramir was true. The most of Ivarr's customers, I was certain, would not appreciate my bringing Aragorn to spend his evening among them. And for the sake of keeping his customers happy, neither would Ivarr himself. Selfish though it might be, I had no wish to damage my standing in a place that had been my drinking establishment of choice since I was a lad of twelve.

And there was a further consideration that carried still greater weight with me. Should I ask Aragorn to join us, and should he agree, I thought there was very little chance that Svip would agree to go out with the Man who – as he saw it – had taken my father's kingdom.

All of the chosen revellers were faithful to our assignation. As the bells called the first hour past the sunset, we assembled at my townhouse courtyard: Svip and I, the four Hobbits with their ponies, Legolas and Gimli with their Rohirrim steed about which the Dwarf was still making his inevitable grousing comments, and Faramir with one of the horses of the Citadel stables that Éowyn had trained to get along with Svip.

Conversation began upon a stilted note as we commenced our ride to Waterfront, while those who had not just been rejected by the lady we were courting, strove to avoid mentioning it to those of us who had. It was Svip who successfully undammed the flow of speech, by asking the assembled company what they thought he ought to drink. The resultant debate on the merits of various libations, and reminiscences of every tavern in and around the Shire, brought us merrily through until we reached the Harlond Gate.

At the stable there we left our steeds, with the exception, of course, of Svip, who changed back to his regular shape for the walk through town. Legolas and Gimli were still carrying on their predictable Elf-versus-Dwarf argument over the virtues of wine as opposed to mead, and Pippin was teasing Frodo over some drunken escapades at the Green Dragon. Merry and I, perhaps, did not join in the conversational gambits as frequently as we might otherwise have done – Faramir is normally so quiet, that it would be hard for most people to tell if he were being more restrained than is his wont. But the conviviality of the others was enough to carry us along with it.

And when we reached the Orc's Head, the warmth of familiarity was enough for me to thrust all other thoughts aside.

I could not help but grin as we stepped through the tavern's door. A few of the nearby customers recognised me and broke into cheers, which were taken up here and there across the common room. Most of the men about the room I recognised, and those whom I did not, I certainly recognised by type. Here was the usual complement of fishermen and sailors, workers from the docks and the warehouses of the guilds, off-duty soldiers, a scattering of merchants from the southlands, and the occasional wonder-struck visitor to the City. There, at their usual places by the bar, were the assemblage of ancient codgers whom I half believed lived in the Orc's Head common room, for the only times I had seen this room without them had been as we raced against time before the siege of Minas Tirith, and on the day when we brought my father's body into the White City.

Ivarr, the bartender Nikolai, and most of Ivarr's family were all behind the bar. They saw and recognised me almost at once. Ivarr bustled forward, with a grin an ell wide and a booming call of, "My Lord Boromir!" This served to announce my presence to those who had not already noticed, and the cheers became more general.

"Welcome, My Lord, a thousand times welcome!" declared Ivarr, as we shook hands. "And to you also, My Lord," he added more quietly to Faramir. "Do we have the honour of hosting a brothers' night out?"

"Something like that," answered Faramir, smiling as he and the Innkeepers' Guildleader shook hands. "My brother believes, as usual, that I am working too hard. So we are doing our best to rectify that tonight."

"Welcome to all of you gentlemen," Ivarr continued, bowing, "welcome to the Orc's Head!" He added to me, as we started across the room, "I cannot promise you your usual benches and table, I'm afraid, for as you know, most of our furniture laid down its life in the service of our country! But we have saved your usual place for you, as always. And the new furniture shall be hallowed by your presence here tonight."

I suggested, "'Hallowed' may be overdoing it a bit, Ivarr. And I do not think we will be here long enough tonight for my lordly rear to start creating hollows in the bench, either. But I will do my best to accomplish that over the years ahead, that I can promise you."

As the nine of us found places about the benches in my "hallowed" corner, Ivarr asked, "Shall we begin with the usual, My Lord?"

"Of course," I granted.

Ivarr turned to call out to the company at large, "A round for all in the house, courtesy of His Excellency the Captain-General! One round only," he added with an admonitory shake of his finger, amid the cheers that had started up again. "Lord Boromir has been funding too many civic improvement projects of late; he does not need us to drink him out of house and home."

The innkeeper turned back to us to take our order, which in addition to the drinks included my request that his good wife send forth to us whatever she felt to be the tastiest offerings of her kitchen. I explained to our host that our four Hobbit friends were of a people renowned for their gourmandizing prowess, not to mention that we expected to go through such a quantity of liquid refreshment as to require a multitude of foodstuffs to soak it up.

The first drinks and food swiftly arrived, borne by Ivarr's wife and their three daughters. The youngest, seven-year-old Melilot, carried with her neither food nor drink, but rather the black-haired little cloth doll I had seen here once before amid my memorial offerings, a doll dressed in the black and silver of Gondor.

With the various potations and victuals distributed, the two older girls stepped back but remained nearby, and the lady of the household took up a position behind the youngest, with her hands on Melilot's shoulders. A slight nudge from her mother urged the little girl forward.

Bright-eyed and blushing, Melilot declared, "My Lord, on behalf of all at the Orc's Head I want to bid you welcome, and to say how happy we are at your safe return home." She then impulsively added a statement that had clearly not been part of her scripted speech, "And I'm very glad you aren't dead!"

I answered, amid the general chuckles and quiet applause, "Thank you, Melilot. I am happy indeed to see all of you again. And I'm very glad I'm not dead, too."

"Welcome to you, My Lord Steward," she went on, with a curtsy to Faramir rendered slightly wobbly by the need to keep hold of the doll as she executed that manoeuvre. The girl said then hastily, as though wanting to get out the words before her voice failed her, "I want both of you to know, I'm so sorry about your Lord father."

This time we both thanked her. Then Melilot ran the few paces to my side, clutching the doll before her. "My Lord," she said, "I made this doll for you when – when you were dead. You know it's meant to be your father. Now that he's gone to the Undying Lands and you haven't, I want you to have it. So maybe you won't be so lonely."

In one hand I accepted the doll that she thrust at me, and with the other hand I clasped hers. "Thank you, Melilot," I told her again. "I thank you with all of my heart. I will treasure this gift."

With a quick grin, the child turned and fled. The other ladies followed her at a more sedate pace, smiling and giving us their own words of welcome.

We were left all looking rather quizzically at the small, yarn-haired rendition of the Lord Steward Denethor sitting on the table before me.

Faramir, seated beside me, asked quietly, "So where will the doll be seated for the evening? I'm not certain of the etiquette in such an instance."

"Here on the bench will do, I suppose," I decided, sitting the little thing down between the two of us. I said to all of our company, "I look to all of you to help me remember to take this with me when we leave. It absolutely would not do to forget it."

They promised their assistance in the matter. Faramir then said, looking about at our comrades, "Gentlemen, although the idea for this outing was Boromir's, allow me to give you my thanks for joining us here tonight. To you most especially, Merry," he said, smiling at the third suitor. "I am grateful that you are willing to sit down with us in friendship – sorry though I am at the cause that brings us here. And," he went on, raising his goblet, "I wish to offer a toast. To the Lady Éowyn of Rohan."

"Lady Éowyn of Rohan," all of us said, and eventually we performed the rather complicated manoeuvre of clinking nine different goblets and tankards.

Svip, seated at my right hand, spoke up. He said, "I want to give a toast, too. But I've never done it before; I'm not sure how to do it right."

"You simply say who or what you want to drink to," I told him. "It's all right; there's no set formula you have to follow."

Svip stood up on the bench, with his wine goblet in hand. "Then," he said, "I want to offer a toast. To the Lord Denethor Son of Ecthelion."

In a moment of touched surprise, I hesitated. Then I got to my feet, and the others did likewise.

We repeated, "Lord Denethor Son of Ecthelion." Solemnly we again went through the glass-touching ritual, and drank.

"Thank you," Svip said with a suddenly shy grin, when we all sat back down. That shyness vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, as he leaned forward on the table and said, "Now I want you all to tell me about what you're drinking."

What we were drinking, unsurprisingly, was a lot. While we drank and ate and drank some more, the initial discussion of what beverage sat before each of us moved into a lecture by Gimli on the ancient Dwarven art of mead-making (and his analysis that Gondorian mead was nowhere near Dwarven quality, so after the first few cups he switched over to ale), a discussion by the Hobbits of the ales of the Shire, and my own travelogue on the celebrated distilleries of the White Mountains. Then someone asked me of my history with the Orc's Head, so I told the tale of my first visit to the tavern, when I ended up sleeping under the table in this very corner. That, predictably, led to various of the others telling the stories of their own first encounters with strong drink – which, in the case of Legolas, had taken place a stunningly long time ago.

The Elven prince, as befitted one with so many years of experience, was going through his wine at a phenomenal rate. My own ale had taken its usual toll upon whatever efforts I normally make at not saying everything that I think. At one point when Legolas ordered another bottle, I stared at him, exclaiming, "Valar's balls, _another_? Let us ask Ivarr when his next shipment is due; I would hate to see you drain his entire supply!"

Legolas grinned, smugly enjoying my astonishment. "Ah, my friend, do not be so surprised! It is widely acknowledged that the Elves are the unsurpassed drinkers of Middle Earth."

At that, Gimli growled, "It is, eh? We shall see about that."

Laughing, but perhaps in sincere warning, Legolas cautioned him, "Nay, friend Gimli, be warned; seek not to outdo me in this! There is no shame in accepting that some millennia more of practice may have given me a stronger head for drink."

Probably hoping to avert what might become for Gimli a rather disastrous round of this competition, Frodo intervened with, "Well, what about drinking songs? Are the Elves unsurpassed in those, too?"

"Ah, no, in fact," answered Legolas. "In that, I freely admit, we do not hold supremacy. Oh, we sing when we drink, but they do not tend to be drinking songs, as such. With my people at least, as Gimli will not be surprised to hear, more often than not our songs tend to be about trees. It stands to reason;" he went on, "after all, we have eighty-seven different words for what less sophisticated peoples simply refer to as 'leaves.'"

"Well, what is it, then?" challenged Frodo. "What people of Middle Earth _do_ hold supremacy in drinking songs?"

"Not the Dwarves, that is certain," said Gimli. "When we drink, we drink." Unable to resist a further jibe at his friend and old foe, the Dwarf added, "We are a business-like people, with more important work to tend to than making up words for leaves."

"It is down to Men and Hobbits, then," Frodo went on merrily. "But on what shall the judgement be based? On the number of songs, or the quality of the song? Let us hear from you, Sons of Denethor! What is the greatest drinking song of Men?"

"Ah. Well," I said. "That is quite a question. There are a hell of a lot of them. But," I continued as I thought about it, turning to Faramir for support, "I suppose it would really have to be 'We Be Soldiers Four.' Wouldn't you think?"

"Do not ask me, brother!" Faramir exclaimed. "You are the expert, not I. But," he then said as well, in his own turn pausing to think, "I suppose it would really have to be, wouldn't it?"

It should come as no surprise that we were then prevailed upon to sing the piece in question. As proof of the quantity of wine he had already imbibed, my brother did not even make his usual objections about the deficiencies in my singing voice.

More-or-less in unison, the two of us sallied into the song that has for centuries been part of the birthright of every soldier of Gondor.

_We be soldiers four _

– _May we live to see home once more! – _

_Lately come forth from black Mordor_

_With never a penny of money._

_Drink, good fellows, and landlord, pour _

– _May we live to see home once more! –_

_Pour for each good fellow who walks through the door_

_With never a penny of money._

_And he that will not pledge me this _

– _May we live to see home once more! –_

_Pays for the shot, whatever it is_

_With never a penny of money._

_Charge it again, boys, charge it again _

– _May we live to see home once more! –_

_As long as you have any ink in your pen_

_With never a penny of money._

_We be soldiers four _

– _May we live to see home once more! – _

_Lately come forth from black Mordor_

_With never a penny of money._

It then became a pressing necessity to teach our comrades at that table the song. So we went through the thing several times more. By the last time we sang our way through it, most of the tavern's patrons were joining in.

After that room-wide sing-along, our focus returned to the nine of us at the table. Pippin proposed gleefully, "Let us have a song from each of us! That is what we always used to do at home. Everyone at the table has to sing a song in turn."

Various of the others made supportive exclamations, and Merry declared, "We must have your song first, Boromir! It is you who have called us here; you have to begin."

"Ah, my dear friends," I laughed, "you do not know what you ask! Just now I was camouflaged by Faramir singing with me. I assure you, did I sing alone, it would be such an assault to sensibility as your ears would scarcely bear."

"We are drunk, Boromir," stated Frodo. "In the state we are in, your voice will sound to us like that of Goldberry the River-daughter."

"I trust not," said I, not having the faintest idea to whom he was referring, "or for the sake of the river, I hope his daughter never sang much to him." But despite such protestations, before long I was taking a good swig of ale, to whet such voice as I had. I said to them one last time, "Remember that I warned you!" Then I threw myself into a song I remembered learning in my earliest days with the army – a song which, at the age of fourteen, I had thought rather scandalous.

_There were three drunken maidens_

_Came from the City White_

_They drunk from Elenya morning_

_Full into Valanya night_

_When Valanya night did come, my boys,_

_They would not then go out_

_But these three drunken maidens,_

_They passed the jug about._

_Then in comes bouncing Fíriel, _

_Her cheeks as red as a bloom_

"_Move up, my jolly sisters,_

_And give young Fíriel some room._

_For I'll be your equal, _

_Before the night is out."_

_Then those four drunken maidens,_

_They passed the jug about._

_There's woodcock and pheasant,_

_There's partridge and hare,_

_And every kind of dainty_

_No scarcity was there._

_There's forty quarts of beer, my boys,_

_They fairly drunk them out,_

_And tho__se four drunken maidens,_

_They passed the jug about._

_Then up comes the landlord,_

_Asking for his pay_

_And a forty crown bill, my boys,_

_Those girls had got to pay._

_They drunk ten crowns apiece, my boys,_

_But still they wouldn't go out,_

_And those four drunken maidens,_

_They passed the jug about._

_Oh, where are your feathered hats,_

_Your mantles rich and fine?_

_They've all been swallowed up,_

_In tankards of good wine._

_And where are your maidenheads,_

_You maidens frisk and gay?_

_We left them in the alehouse,_

_For we've drunk them clean away!_

Thus I concluded amid our comrades' laughs and cheers, and of course the inevitable comments about my voice. Gimli said, "You've got a lovely voice, lad. 'Twas such a lullaby as would send a Dwarven babe straight to sleep," and Sam put in helpfully, "Aye; it only once or twice put me in mind of me old gran when she had the croup."

When everyone had their fill of humorous comments, Frodo suggested, "Will you be next, Svip?"

But Svip demurred. He stood up to bow to Faramir, nearly falling off the bench as he did so. "You should be next, My Lord Steward," said he.

"Ah, well," said Faramir, "I am no such expert on drinking songs as is my noble brother, of that I can assure you. But," he admitted, with a grin, "one does hear a few of them here and there, in twenty years in the service."

And with that he commenced – in his golden tones that make my croakings scarcely deserve the name of "voice."

_Wine does wonders_

_Does wonders, does wonders_

_Does wonders every day._

_Makes the heavy light and gay_

_Throws off all their melancholy._

_Makes the wisest go astray_

_And the busy toy and play_

_And the poor and needy jolly –_

_And the poor and needy jolly._

_Wine makes trembling cowards bold_

_Men in years forget they're old_

_Women leave their coy disdaining_

_Who 'till then were shy and cold_

_Makes the miser slight his gold_

_And the voiceless it gives voice to –_

_And the voiceless it gives voice to!_

_Wine does wonders_

_Does wonders, does wonders_

_Does wonders every day._

The last line of the verse, of course, he had changed from the standard lyrics, to get in another dig at my voice. I bowed to him in acknowledgement of his gambit, only narrowly avoiding knocking several tankards, goblets and bottles off the table in the process.

After everyone had bestowed their praises on the Steward for his musical brilliance, Pippin urged, "Now you, Svip! We must have your song."

I had expected Svip to sing one of the songs he had learned from Cirion's Rangers on their journey back to Minas Tirith. But instead, he surprised all of us.

He asked me, "Is it all right to sing … not really a drinking song? Just to sing something I want to sing?"

"Of course it is," I told him, amid similar assurances from the others. "Tonight most especially, everyone must sing precisely what he wants to sing."

He leaned back against the wall behind our bench, looking rapt in dreams. "Well," he said, "it's a song I learned from my mother, when I lived in her house, when I was little. She said it's something our people used to sing long ago, when we still lived in villages. It's about everyone going out fishing together. And coming back to the village in the twilight to cook."

It was a strange and haunting melody that Svip sang. He sang in the language of his people that I had heard him demonstrate for Faramir, and heard him speak with Mithrandir at the Causeway Forts. There was much in the simple tune that reminded me of the ancient work songs of our people's fisherfolk. Yet somehow it seemed different enough as to make me imagine it might have been composed by river birds, or by the Anduin itself.

I know not what the others felt and thought as they heard him sing. I know not how much was in the song itself, and how much I simply felt through a combination of the ale I had drunk, and my memories of journeying down Anduin with Svip. It seemed that I heard in his song the wistful longing loneliness that had been the curse of his people, ever since whatever ancient change it was that had led them to dwell in each others' company no more.

After Svip fell silent, the spell for some moments more held all of us in its grip. The praises we then spoke were quiet and heartfelt. Faramir refilled his goblet from the latest bottle that Legolas had nearly emptied, and said, "I wish to offer another toast. To you, Svip, and to your people."

When we had echoed that toast, Faramir continued to the bashfully grinning Svip, "And you must let me write that book we talked about, back at the Causeway Forts! Goodness knows, the Steward of Gondor has not much time for research projects. But we will make the time for it, if you are willing. Are there other songs like that?" At Svip's answer that there were, Faramir hastened onward with, "You must sing them for me; help me transcribe them and tell me their translations. There should be a chapter devoted to them, and to any folktales that survive from your people's past …"

He went on in that vein through several more chapter topics, until he noticed the tolerant grins on the faces of the rest of us. Then Faramir grinned sheepishly himself, as he said, "Sorry. I did not mean to disrupt the song cycle with my research."

"Nay, brother," I declared, "research on! None of us would wish to stand in the way of scholarship."

"But," Faramir countered, "scholarly tomes are not written best from the depths of a pool of wine. Shall we continue onward around the table?" On our various affirmative answers, my brother said to Legolas, "I offer you my apologies then, My Lord Prince, for it is your song that I have been delaying."

"Oh, good," chortled Gimli. "Now we shall hear about the trees!"

"In truth," Legolas said, "I had thought that I might not sing of trees tonight – suspecting, for whatever mysterious cause, that foliage may not be of great interest to all the members of our company. And the fact is that Elven songs tend to be – I am told – a bit lengthy for most peoples' tastes. I should not care to be singing still while the rest of you are seeking out your beds."

There were various protestations, including Pippin who urged, "No, no, Legolas, we like Elven songs! And no one's going to seek his bed anytime soon."

Personally, I thought that I had heard enough Elven singing in Imladris to last me a lifetime far longer than any I am likely to have. But I held quiet on that point. For, I told myself, I was not the only one who had the right to enjoy this night.

"Nonetheless," answered the Prince of Mirkwood, "there is something else that this night moves me to sing. Yet I fear it also may not please many of our company. It is … melancholy."

"My friend," said Faramir, "on a day when three of our number have been told that we must bid farewell to our dreams, what sentiment could be more fitting than melancholy?"

I think that many of us quickly busied ourselves in taking swigs of our drinks, to avoid showing our reactions to such a nakedly emotional statement from Faramir. Legolas, for his part, abandoned further objection. In his light, lilting voice he began to sing.

_Oft in the stilly night,_

_Ere slumber's chains have bound me__,_

_Fond memory brings the light_

_Of other days around me._

_The smiles, the tears_

_Of long-gone years,_

_The words of love then spoken,_

_The eyes that shone,_

_Now dimmed and gone,_

_The cheerful hearts now broken._

_Thus in the stilly night,_

_Ere slumber's chains have bound me,_

_Sad memory brings the light_

_Of other days around me._

_When I remember all_

_The friends, so linked together,_

_I've seen around me fall_

_Like leaves in wintry weather,_

_I feel like one who treads alone_

_Some banquet hall deserted,_

_Whose lights are dead,_

_Whose garlands fled,_

_And all but he departed._

_Thus in the stilly night,_

_Ere slumber's chains have bound me,_

_Sad memory brings the light_

_Of other days around me._

All of us were silent when he had drawn his song to its close. At last Gimli took a large gulp from his tankard and said, "Well. That was cheerful."

"I did warn you," snapped Legolas, casting him a look more genuinely irritated than anything I had seen them exchange since before my death.

From the sudden shifting of positions and the worried looks about the table, I think that we were all readying ourselves to leap between the two of them, should their competition revert to the genuine enmity it had been at the start of our voyaging together. Meanwhile Merry said fiercely, "It was beautiful, Legolas. Beautiful."

Legolas relaxed somewhat, but he said pointedly to Gimli, "Well, what do the Dwarves sing about? Dying in droves down in your black pits, while you scrabble about for jewels?"

"Actually, my leaf-loving friend," answered Gimli, not rising to the bait, "I have just remembered one genuine Dwarven drinking song. But …"

I thought that he actually blushed then, although between the effect of the drink on all of us, and the usual ruddiness of Gimli's face, it was hard to tell. Looking surprisingly embarrassed as he glanced from Merry, to Faramir and me, he said, "It may be over-strong for you gentlemen's palates. And … you must not think it refers to anyone we know. It has nothing to do with … recent unfortunate events. I don't want you all to go yelling that I've besmirched the lady's honour, and reaching for your swords to carve me up."

"Master Gimli," said Faramir solemnly, "I give you my word as the Steward of Gondor. There will be no yelling and no carving up."

Gimli still did not look overly convinced. Nonetheless he took another swig, and began in a gravely voice that was certainly no better than mine:

_Once, twice, thrice_

_I Bryndis tried._

_The scornful puss_

_As oft denied._

_And since –_

_And since – _

_And since_

_I can no better thrive,_

_I'll bow to ne'er a bitch alive._

_So kiss my arse – _

_So kiss my arse – _

_So kiss my arse,_

_Disdainful sow._

_Good mead,_

_Good mead_

_Is my mistress now!_

His song's closing was greeted by a combination of coughing, laughter, and much hasty taking-of-drinks. Pouring for himself the dregs from the nearby wine bottle, Faramir remarked, "You were right, my friend; it is a bit strong. And let us move swiftly along, with no singing of that song in chorus, lest report of its lyrics reach the ears of one whom we would not wish to hear them."

With a sheepish grin, Gimli raised his tankard to Faramir. Merry, meantime, seated next to Gimli, said rather frostily, "I can offer a change of pace." With a good deal of challenge in his gaze, our fellow suitor declared, "I know plenty of tavern songs of the Shire. But I'm certain Pippin will give us one of those. I want to sing a song of Rohan. It is something Éowyn taught to me – long ago, in our first days in the White City, before ever any of us sought to court her. She said that it is maxims from some of the oldest writings of the Land of the Mark."

And Merry sang, to a wild, half-chanted tune of a type I remembered full well from many a banquet in Théoden's hall.

_Truth is the most fickle thing._

_Treasure, the costliest._

_Grief clings strangely_

_But clouds will pass._

_Good comrades must encourage_

_A young Rider to war._

_The sword needs the battle_

_Helmet against blade._

_The boar belongs in the wood_

_Safe in his strength._

_A Man belongs in his homeland_

_Building his fame._

_The spear belongs in the hand_

_The spear gaudy with gold._

_The stream belongs in the waves_

_Mingled in ocean-tide._

_The dragon belongs in its barrow_

_Jealous of its jewels._

_The fish belongs in its stream_

_Spawning its kind._

_The bear belongs on the heath_

_Fearsome and old._

_The Éored must stand fast_

_For glory bound._

_In a Man there must be hope_

_In a mortal, wisdom._

_The tree belongs in the earth_

_Bright with leaves._

_The door belongs in the hall_

_The building's wide mouth._

_The boss belongs on the shield_

_The fingers' sure guard._

_The bird belongs in the sky_

_Flying through cloud._

_The tempest tears from the heavens _

_Into this world._

As his song faded like the call of Rohirrim horns in the distance, I said perhaps a trifle hoarsely, "Let us drink to her again. To Éowyn of Rohan."

The process of conducting that toast revealed to many of us that we were all-but out of drink. There was a hiatus while we sought further libations. When all were supplied again, Pippin said to Merry, "Well, thank you very much, cousin, for choosing to sing that! Now I'll look even more of a silly ass than usual, with what I'm going to sing."

"Dear Pip," Merry said tenderly, reaching over to tousle Pippin's hair. "I think that all of us could use a little silliness."

So Pippin said, looking to Faramir and me, "Well … I suppose it's one of the songs I would have sung for your father, if I'd ever sung for him songs of the Shire as he asked me to. And goodness knows what he would have thought of it! But I'm still sorry I never did sing it for him. And I'm glad I can sing it for his sons."

With a last swig from his tankard and a last look of over-acted nervousness, Pippin sang.

_I'll tell you a story, no stranger than true_

_With a falalalala__lero_

_The story is old, but the sonnet is new_

_With a falalalalalero_

_The story sprang from under a bush_

_With a tale and a tune as sweet as a thrush_

_But I fear it may cause a fair lady to blush_

_With a falalalalalero._

_I went for a walk one evening tide_

_With a __falalalalalero_

_My fancy did take me down by the wood side_

_With a falalalalalero_

_'Twas in the prime of all the spring_

_That gives delight to everything_

_I heard a lass listen to hear a lad sing_

_With his falalalalalero._

_Now many an amorous glance did they cast_

_With their falalalalalero_

_But that is not all, the best is the last_

_With a falalalalalero_

_Something, it seems, this youth would do_

_Which she would not consent unto_

_Have patience and you shall know all ere you go_

_With a falalalalalero._

_I got me straight up into a tree_

_With a falalalalalero_

_Where I might see all, but no one might see me_

_With my falalalalalero_

_The tree was broad, and full of growth_

_The top of it hung all over 'em both_

_So if I'd have fallen, I'd broken their troth_

_With my falalalalalero._

_"Ah, do not sigh, to hear me entice_

_With my falalalalalero!_

_Thou had'st never been got, if thy mother'd been nice_

_With her falalalalalero!"_

_He with his lips her mouth did wipe_

_And gave her many an earnest gripe_

_For just now milady was yielding ripe_

_With her falalalalalero._

_Oh! What a fret was I in up that tree!_

_With my falalalalalero_

_That I had not another by me_

_With her falalalalalero!_

_I turned and screwed my body around_

_To see my gallant scale the town_

_But his getting up, made me tumble down_

_With my falalalalalero!_

_Such was my fortune, no mischief I had_

_With my__ falalalalalero_

_My lovers both ran, as if they'd been mad_

_With their falalalalalero_

_And now, I hope, a warning 'twill be_

_Not to such shameful pleasures agree_

_For fear of the goblin that fell from the tree_

_With his falalalalalero!_

He closed to much laughing and applause, and I had to pause to wipe some tears of laughter from my eyes."Pippin," said I, "I do not truly know what our father would have thought of that. But it's my guess that he would have approved. He appreciated sincerity, and that song is nothing if not sincere."

"Well," said Sam rather dourly, from his seat between Pippin and Frodo, "then I suppose it's my turn. And I don't know much in the way of tavern songs. But there is something that I want to sing. It's …"

Sam looked at Frodo then, and seemed, in his quiet tones, to be speaking only to him.

"It's just something that came to me, out there in the Black Lands. When … there in the tower, when I was looking for you, Mr. Frodo, when you were captured, and I was asking myself what I thought I was doing, me, Sam Gamgee the gardener, thinking I could take on a whole fortress full of Orcs, and all Mordor besides. And, somehow, well, this just came into my head."

Frodo reached out to him and clasped Sam's hand. And the intrepid gardener sang.

_In western lands beneath the sun_

_The flowers may rise in spring_

_The trees may bud, the waters run,_

_The merry finches sing._

_Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night_

_And swaying beeches bear_

_The Elven-stars as jewels white_

_Amid their branching hair._

_Though here at journey's end I lie_

_In darkness buried deep_

_Beyond all towers strong and high_

_Beyond all mountains steep,_

_Above all shadows rides the sun_

_And stars for ever dwell:_

_I will not say the day is done,_

_Nor bid the stars farewell._

"Thank you, Sam," quietly spoke Frodo. With a smile, the Ringbearer looked about at all of us, raised his tankard and said, "To Samwise Gamgee."

"Samwise Gamgee!" was our heartfelt toast.

"And now," said Frodo, his gentle smile turning to a grin, "I will once again bring down the tone. Like Pippin, I will sing one of the tavern songs of the Shire. And in honour of the cause that brings us here, I am dedicating this to Merry."

"Oh, gods, no," Merry groaned.

With only a minimum of wobbling, Frodo climbed up onto the bench. As he launched into his song, I thought that for the first time I was glimpsing Frodo Baggins as he must have been before ever the Ring of Power came into his hand.

_I sat in my window one evening_

_When the post brought this summons to me_

_A little gilt-edged invitation_

_Saying "Frodo Baggins come over for tea."_

_Now I knew that the Brandybucks sent it_

_So I went just for old friendship's sake_

_And the first thing they gave me to tackle_

_Was a slice of Miss Brandybuck's cake._

_There were plums and prunes and cherries_

_Citrons and raisins and cinnamon too_

_There was nutmeg, cloves and berries_

_And a crust that was nailed on with glue._

_There were caraway seeds in abundance_

_'Two__uld work up a fine stomach ache_

_That would murder you twice just by eating a slice_

_Of Miss Brandybuck's Yuletide cake._

_Miss Sackville wanted to try it_

_But really it wasn't no use_

_For we worked on it over an hour_

_And we couldn't get none of it loose._

_'Till Whitfoot came in with a hatchet_

_And Longhole came in with a saw_

_That cake was enough, by the Valar,_

_To paralyse anyone's jaw!_

_There were plums and prunes and cherries_

_Citrons and raisins and cinnamon too_

_There was nutmeg, cloves and berries_

_And a crust that was nailed on with glue._

_There were caraway seeds in abundance_

_'T__would work up a fine stomach ache_

_That would murder you twice just by eating a slice_

_Of Miss Brandybuck's Yuletide cake._

_Miss Brandybuck, proud as a peacock,_

_Kept smiling and blinking at me_

_Till she tripped over old Proudfoot's proud feet_

_And she spilt the homebrew in her tea._

_"Frodo Baggins," she says, "you're not eating!_

_Try a little bit more for my sake."_

_"Ah__, no, Miss Brandybuck," says I,_

_"For I've had quite enough of your cake!"_

_There were plums and prunes and cherries_

_Citrons and raisins and cinnamon too_

_There was nutmeg, cloves and berries_

_And a crust that was nailed on with glue._

_There were caraway seeds in abundance_

_'T__would work up a fine stomach ache_

_That would murder you twice just by eating a slice_

_Of Miss Brandybuck's Yuletide cake._

_Now Lightfoot was took by the colic_

_Clayhanger a pain in his head_

_Hornblower lay down on the sofa_

_And he swore that he wished he were dead._

_Miss Boffin went into hysterics_

_And there she did wriggle and shake_

_And everyone swore they were poisoned_

_By Miss Brandybuck's Yuletide cake!_

_There were plums and prunes and cherries_

_Citrons and raisins and cinnamon too_

_There was nutmeg, cloves and berries_

_And a crust that was nailed on with glue._

_There were caraway seeds in abundance_

_'T__would work up a fine stomach ache_

_That would murder you twice just by eating a slice_

_Of Miss Brandybuck's Yuletide cake._

We were all of us singing the chorus by the time Frodo drew to the end of this, although with varying degrees of accuracy. So it was, of course, necessary for the four Hobbits to sing the song through a half dozen times more, with frequent hysterical interruptions in the chorus as they attempted to instruct the rest of us in the proper order of all the prunes, citrons, raisins, cherries and glue.

At last even the most die-hard accepted that we had rhapsodized enough upon Miss Brandybuck's Yuletide cake. As the hilarity slowly died down, Merry said, wiping his eyes, "It isn't _really_ Miss Brandybuck's Yuletide cake, you know. You just sing the song and put in whatever names you want to. I will have you know," he went on, looking as dignified and offended as he could, "all of _my_ lady relations make excellent cake!"

It was at this point that Faramir stood up and said, "Gentlemen, I regret to say that I must bid you all good night. The office of Steward does not lend itself well to late-night drinking sessions. A fact which," he added with a long-suffering look at me, "I am sure that Boromir had clearly in mind when he convinced me to take the job!"

All of us urged him mightily to stay, but Faramir was adamant. "Alas, no, my friends," said he. "The Steward must also maintain some modicum of dignity – also not one of Boromir's strong suits. So I think that I must depart before I begin crying and informing each one of you that you are my best friends and I love you."

"I'll walk you outside," I told him, "and get a little fresh air. Gentlemen, if you happen to empty the cellars while I am outside, I beseech you to leave me one last tankard of ale!"

Amid the boisterous farewells of our comrades, and pausing for Faramir to bid good night to our worthy host, Faramir and I wended our way out-of-doors.

The crisp bite of the air and the brilliance of the stars hit me like the best Calenhad whiskey. For some time we stood side by side, gazing up at the stars that spun ever so slightly above me, but were none the less beauteous for that.

Finally I dragged my gaze from the stars. "Halfling," I said, reaching over to ruffle his hair as I spoke the childhood nickname, "thank you for coming tonight."

"Troll," he answered, flinging his arm about my shoulder, "I would not have missed it for the world."

Something came to my mind that I would gladly have banished again. But I spoke of it nonetheless. "Back there, when Svip proposed the toast to Father … I was not at all certain you would drink to him. Thank you for doing it. I know it was not anything you wished to do."

He let his hand fall from my shoulder and stepped back a pace. The look that he gave me was both bitter and matter-of-fact.

"I can drink to him, Boromir," he said. "I cannot forgive him. Perhaps I never will. But I can drink to him."

Of one instinct we both looked to the stars again. Quietly Faramir said, "The little girl said it best. I am very glad you're not dead."

"Me too," I told him, as for a moment the stars wavered and blurred before my eyes. "Me too."

Shaking my head in a useless attempt to clear it and then rather wishing I hadn't, I pulled myself back to this Middle Earth.

"Better run along to your bed, My Lord Steward," I told him, punching him lightly in the arm. "Do not forget your famous dignity."

"Boromir," he said in sudden intensity, "thank you for coming home."

The Sons of Denethor embraced there in the street of Waterfront, before the door of the Orc's Head. Then Faramir pulled away from me, looked down at his feet, and said, "Right. Now to see if I remember how to walk."

"Let me know if you don't," I said, "and I'll come along to help."

My brother waved at me and strode away. His course weaved only slightly as I watched him walk out of sight.

Back I went into the warmth and light and the joyous noise of the tavern, to the welcoming hails of my friends and the ale that gleamed like red gold.

I confess that I recall but little of the conversations that followed. Fairly shortly after the departure of Faramir – no more than an hour later, at the most – we came to the conclusion that we also would return to Minas Tirith. It was, I think, upon the next occasion when most of us ran out of drink, and we had to determine whence the next drink would come.

Ivarr urged us to stay on, adding that he had guest rooms aplenty to place at our disposal, if I did not care to again sleep under the table. But I think I had got it into my head that Ivarr's cellar was at risk of being drained by our party, most especially by that indefatigable drinker Prince Legolas of Mirkwood. It was, thought I, my duty both to safeguard the Orc's Head's supplies from depletion, and to see to it that all of my friends had plenty more to drink.

So I invited them back to my townhouse to continue our revels. And the rather laborious process of getting such a party onto the road began.

"Don't forget the doll, Boromir," Frodo reminded me, as each of us was carefully making his way over or around the benches.

"Damnation!" I exclaimed. "Thank you. I was going to forget it, after jolly well being certain that I wouldn't."

"I'll carry it for you," offered Pippin. He carefully stowed the Lord Denethor rag doll inside his jerkin. "I suppose it's only fitting for me to do it, as the Steward's esquire."

Svip was clambering down from the bench, and he suddenly grabbed hold of my over-tunic to steady himself. He said in a wondering tone, looking down, "I don't have any legs."

I said, amidst general grins at that comment, "Wait 'till you've done this a few more times; you'll get used to that." I added, "Would you like me to carry you?" as I watched him take some experimental steps like a toddler just discovering the world of walking.

"No," he said, "I guess I can walk without them." He grinned up at me and remarked, "I suppose now I know what you feel like when you've been too long away from the River."

I made my way to the bar to wish good night to Ivarr and his people. Ivarr, Nikolai, and our host's wife and eldest girl were there, the two younger daughters having long since gone to their beds. As I was shaking hands with the innkeeper once more, my eyes lit on the familiar sight of the "By Appointment to the Captain-General" plaque on the wall behind him. Below the plaque now, on a shelf that used to hold glasses and bottles, clustered the assemblage of offerings that the tavern's customers had given for me when the news came of my death. On the wall now hung the little portrait of me that I had seen before with those offerings. And next to that hung a new addition: a portrait of my father.

Although fairly small, it was a good quality likeness, which Ivarr must have purchased at considerable expense. This one, unlike the portrait of me, had likely never seen the interior of a market stall. As I gazed at my father's fierce stare and his sardonic hint of a smile, I found myself hoping that Faramir had not noticed this portrait. Although if he had, I thought, it would have been nothing new to him. He was all too well used to living his life under our father's unforgiving glare.

Like a straggling and unruly pack train we made our way into the street, and turned our steps toward the Harlond stables. Somewhere along the way, we again began singing Frodo's song of the Yuletide cake. We were marching along, alternately bellowing out the song and laughing helplessly when tongues yet again became tangled in the litany of plums, prunes and caraway seeds, when an interruption planted itself in our path.

This interruption took the form of two Men, one of whom demanded, "What do you mean by disturbing the peace like this?" while the other said, "Hold down the noise, you Men. Enjoying yourselves is well enough, but if you don't keep it down, we'll have to see to it that you spend the night in a place you won't enjoy so well."

"Who are you calling a Man?" truculently growled Gimli. Pippin and Merry found that hysterically funny, and they went into gales of giggles.

Something in the speech of both Men reminded me of Aragorn, and when I forced my eyes to focus properly on them, I saw that they were indeed two of his Northern Rangers. Unless the two of them were simply busybodies – always a possibility – they must be on duty as adjuncts to the City Guard, doing Night Watch patrol at the Harlond.

"Give it a rest, boys," I said – in friendly enough tones, I thought. "The duties of the Night Watch don't include harassing warriors of Gondor who are enjoying a few well-deserved drinks."

"You must have deserved an ocean of drinks, from the sound of you," snapped the first one who had spoken. "The duty of the Night Watch is to preserve the peace, and warriors of Gondor should have more care for their countrymen than to disrupt the sleep of law-abiding citizens."

Unsurprisingly, this fellow's attitude was swiftly getting under my skin. I snapped back at him, "Have you got a spear-shaft up your arse? If you'd taken the trouble to learn anything of this city you are guarding, you might know that in the last Census of Gondor there were only ninety-three full-time residents of Waterfront. Most of those either are working in the taverns or are currently among their customers. Whom, precisely, do you imagine we are disturbing?"

"Watch your tongue, Southerner," the Ranger growled. From his tone, as far as he was concerned the term "Southerner" was at least partially an insult. "Being a warrior of Gondor does not make you immune to spending the night behind bars!"

"Watch your own tongue, my lad," I replied, for this Ranger was probably half my age, if that. "The fact that your chieftain has become king does not impart to you the right to give orders to the defenders of this nation that is supposedly now your own."

Frodo put a hand on my arm, saying, "He's just a kid, Boromir. Calm down."

I wanted to tell him that I _was_ calm. But I suppose my next actions somewhat gave that the lie.

"Have a care how you speak of the King, fellow," snapped the young Man. "If you will not go quietly of your own will, then we will have to compel you!"

I suppose he believed we were too drunk to put up any resistance. That, or he had as high an opinion of his fighting prowess as I have of my own. At any rate, he reached out and grabbed a handful of my collar and cloak, as though he actually thought he could haul me away like a tutor disciplining an unruly schoolboy.

I wrenched away from him and, without taking much of a conscious decision to do so, I punched the young fellow in the jaw.

He staggered backward, his fall stopped only by the other Ranger grabbing him. With an enraged yell the young Man tore away from his comrade, who seized hold of him again, saying urgently, "Stop it, Halvor. It's the Captain-General!"

"Sod the Captain-General!" yelled Halvor.

"You want to arrest me, lad?" I called out to him. "I'm standing right here. Give it a try. We'll see which one of us compels the other to go along peaceably."

"Southern bastard!" he raged, still struggling to break free from the grasp of his companion.

"Whoreson Northerner," I said helpfully. "I am still standing here."

"Halvor, for the gods' sakes!" cried the other Ranger. "He's the Captain-General, he's Aragorn's friend! They're _all _Aragorn's friends; don't you recognise them? "

"I have had enough of it!" Halvor stormed. "I've had enough of these lily-fingered Citadel-dwellers thinking they can lord it over us because their ancestors sat on their backsides in the White Tower, while _our_ ancestors fought for the lives of all our people on the very edge of the dark!"

"He's the brother of the Steward, you idiot! He _can _lord it over us!"

Legolas stepped up to the two Rangers then, with Gimli at his side.

"We know well that your ancestors fought on the edge of the dark, as have you," Legolas said quietly. "But so have his ancestors; and so has he, for all of his life. So have all of us. At the side of your king we battled the snows on Caradhras; we fought every step of the way through the black pit of Moria. That Man whom you want to arrest slew a score of Orcs before falling under a hail of arrows, and then he came back from the dead. What do you think you'd achieve by arresting him, even if he allowed you to do it? Do you think Aragorn will thank you for it? Do you think he'll thank you for arresting the halflings who saved all Middle Earth, who destroyed the Dark Lord himself at the peak of the Mountain of Fire?"

"He'll know I was doing my duty," Halvor said mulishly.

"He'll know you were making a fool of yourself," replied Legolas, still in mild tones. "Leave it for this once; you will not regret it. Go on about your other duties. I give you the word of the Prince of Mirkwood that I will get this lot home with a minimum of undue noise."

"He is right, Halvor," urged the other Ranger. "Come _on_."

Young Halvor at last wavered in his determination to beat some respect into me. He scowled from Legolas, to his fellow Ranger, and back to Legolas again, and finally he said to the Elven prince, "I am trusting in your word."

"You may do so. The word that I have given, I will not fail to keep."

Halvor gave a stiff bow, and the two of them started along the street again, in the direction from which we had come. I thought that if they went within earshot of the Orc's Head, Halvor would be faced with the decision of whether to try and arrest the tavern's entire clientele.

"Here, laddie," Gimli called after them. When they stopped and turned, the Dwarf flipped a coin toward the startled Halvor. "When you get off duty, buy yourself a drink. It strikes me you've a bit of a need to relax."

Halvor had caught the coin, and now he hurled it back at Gimli. "Shove it up your arse, Dwarf!" were his parting words.

Legolas reached out and caught the returning coin, then handed it to Gimli. "Was that strictly necessary?" Legolas asked him.

"Strictly," Gimli grinned. "He turned such a charming shade of purple."

Meantime, I was shaking my head at myself, and wondering whether my brother's foreknowing had shown to him this delightful feature of my evening. Perhaps that was part of what had inspired him to head home early. But, no, I thought. If he _had_ seen it, he'd have stuck to me like mustard plaster, to try and keep his big brother out of trouble.

Frodo and Sam were standing at either side of me, and Frodo now mused, "Heavens forefend that a Ranger should drink on duty, but do you suppose that lad has had as much to drink as we have tonight? I'd hate to think that he hasn't! If that is his usual outlook, he must go about trying to arrest every Orc, warg and crow in the forests!"

Sam's comment was a phlegmatic, "We're in the manure pile now."

"No one is in any manure but me," I said. "I'm the one who hit the idiot. I'll go to Aragorn in the morning; I'll tell him what happened and submit myself to his judgement. In the meantime," I went on, returning to what I then thought the most important issue requiring attention, "we need another drink."

"We will all go in the morning," Frodo said stoutly. "It was all of us making the noise. And any one of us would have fought him if he'd touched us."

That statement I did not, in fact, believe, but it was good of Frodo to say it. "We do not need all of the Fellowship on this mission, Frodo," I told him, smiling. "I'm the one who _did _fight him, so I'm the one who will go."

"You can't get out of it; we're all going," he insisted. Casting a glance over at Pippin, Merry and Svip, he added, "those of us who can walk then, anyway."

"We'll talk about it in the morning," I said, by which of course I meant that I had not the slightest intention of letting any of them go with me. "For now, there are a good many more bottles with our names on them."

"You're trying to get us so drunk that we won't remember this tomorrow," he accused me, with a knowing smile. "Well, we will see about that."

"No," I countered, "I am simply remembering my duties as your host."

Only then did it fully intrude on my consciousness that the two younger Hobbits and Svip were all lying on the paving stones, literally prostrated with laughter. From the sound of them, I thought they likely were laughing too helplessly to walk, even if there were not a good deal of alcohol adding to the challenges of that project.

"What is with _them_?" I inquired.

Pippin just kept giggling. Merry managed gaspingly, "You should have seen it, Boromir! You should have seen it! Funniest thing I ever saw!"

Between peals of laughter, Svip forced out his explanation. "I changed shape – when he grabbed you. Only I couldn't hold it. I just got into horse form, and then pop! There I was, me again!"

"You should have seen it," the desperate Pippin echoed his cousin. "One moment there's this horse, sort of staggering around, then there's Svip, flat on his rear! I never thought I would see a drunken horse!"

Grinning at them and shaking our heads, the rest of us walked over to the incapacitated trio. "Come along, my noble steed," I said, hauling Svip to his feet. "Come along, all of us. Let us get back to the stables before some other bright young blade takes a notion to arrest us."

We made it back to the Harlond garrison's stable without further incident. But there, we and all of the soldiers about the place were treated to repeat performances of Svip's drunken horse routine. He insisted that he would be able to hold his horse form in order for me to ride him home. But time and again he changed form, wobbled wildly about like some very poorly trained dancing horse at a fair, and flopped back to being Svip again. Everyone else fell about laughing.

At last I convinced him that I would have to ride a different horse for this once. The commander of the Harlond garrison, struggling manfully to keep a straight face, brought me one of their horses. Pippin induced Svip to ride with him on his pony, which had been one of those trained to endure the water creature's presence.

It was a process akin to herding cats, but eventually all of us were ahorseback. Amid the laughing farewells of the garrison, we rode through the Harlond Gate.

I smiled at the familiar road before me: the road that I had followed on so many other nights, with my head spinning as it did now, and with Minas Tirith gleaming in the distance like the Elven stars of Samwise's song.

"What do you think, Boromir?" Merry called out to me. "Are we far enough out of range for us sing again?"

I snorted, "If Ranger Halvor wants to find an excuse to arrest me for disturbing anyone's peace out here, I wish him luck."

"Then let us sing!" exclaimed Svip.

So I sang, the others soon joining in. As we rode toward the lights of the White City, with the bright stars wheeling overhead, we sang,

_We be soldiers four _

– _May we live to see home once more! –_

_Lately come forth from black Mordor_

_With never a penny of money._

_End Notes:_

_The Drinking Songs_

We Be Soldiers Four:

This greatest of all Gondorian drinking songs is taken from the English song "We Be Soldiers Three" by Thomas Ravenscroft (circa 1582 or '92 – 1635), published in his _Deuteromelia or the Seconde part of Musicks melodie_, 1609. This piece is available in a great many recordings, as befits such a classic drinking song!

The Three Drunken Maidens:

Boromir's song is a "traditional" English song; in the original, the maidens are from the Isle of Wight, not the City White. It is available in many recordings, but the one I know it from is A. L. Lloyd's rendition that appears on the 2-volume CD set _Anthology of English Folk_.

Wine Does Wonders:

Faramir's song was written by John Eccles (1650—1735). I know it from a record in my parents' collection that I grew up with, the Deller Consort's _Tavern Songs, Catches, Glees and Other Diverse Entertainments of Merrie England _("Vanguard Recordings for the Connoisseur"). This record also includes a rendition of "We Be Soldiers Three."

Oft in the Stilly Night:

Legolas sings a "Scottish Air" from _National Airs_, lyrics by Thomas Moore (1780—1852) and melody by Sir John Stevenson (1761—1833). A popular, heartstring-tugging song in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, it seemed to me to perfectly speak to an Elf who has friends among mortals. Many recordings are available, although the one I listened to online is rather more fruity and overblown than I imagine Legolas sounding!

Once, Twice, Thrice:

Gimli's charming little ditty is by Henry Purcell (1659—1695). Like "Wine Does Wonders," it also appears on the Deller Consort's _Tavern Songs_ record.

Anglo-Saxon Maxims:

The Rohirrim Maxims are adapted (somewhat loosely) from "Maxims II," pp. 512—515 in S. A. J. Bradley (trans. and ed.), _Anglo-Saxon Poetry _(J.M. Dent and Sons, Ltd., London), 1982.

The Cross'd Couple:

Pippin's song is adapted from "The Cross'd Couple," found in the Bagford ballad collection assembled by John Bagford (1651—1716). It is the song I had the hardest time tracking down on the internet; for some reason, I haven't been able to find any written version of the lyrics in my searches for it, and so it's the one I had to make up the most of, since I couldn't understand various of the lyrics in the recording I have! This recording is by the City Waites, titled _Low and Lusty Ballads: the Elizabethan Underworld._ (This album also contains a version of "We Be Soldiers Three.")

In Western Lands Beneath the Sun:

Samwise's song is, of course, the only actual Tolkien piece that appears in the drinking song sequence; as Sam describes, he sings it while searching for Frodo in the Tower of Cirith Ungol.

Miss Brandybuck's Yuletide Cake:

Frodo's song is adapted from "Miss Fogarty's Christmas Cake" by Pennsylvanian songwriter C. Frank Horn, published in 1883. Interestingly, that makes it the most modern of all the songs in this sequence. I suppose that is fairly fitting, as I've always seen the Hobbits as inhabiting a fairly Victorian world (or at least a Victorian ideal of country living), while the Gondorians and other Big Folk tend to be more medieval. (As shown by the pre-gunpowder era (except for the explosives of the Enemy) military technology seen in the warfare in Gondor and Rohan (and, of course, the _extremely _Anglo-Saxon Rohirrim), but also the distinctly more modern tea and tobacco enjoyed by the Hobbits.) So I guess it fits that one of the Hobbits should sing a 19th-century song. I had a great time seeking out appropriate Hobbit names to replace the Irish names in the original. Many recordings can be found of this, but I know it from the cd _Christmas in a Celtic Land _by Golden Bough.

Happy listening!


	29. Chapter 29: Captain of Anduin

Author's Note: Here at last (and unbelievably!) is the final chapter. And while I'm sorry to bid farewell to these characters with whom I've been travelling for nine years now, it is undeniably satisfying to have managed to tell the story I wanted to tell. I hope, at some point, to be able to get back to the earlier chapters and make some corrections for continuity errors, typos, punctuation mistakes and the like, but I'm afraid I can't make any promises on how soon I'll be able to do that. At any rate, thank you to all who have read this, and I'm glad that you chose to take this journey with Boromir and Svip.

_Chapter Twenty-Nine_

_Captain of Anduin_

I woke from a sleep that felt only marginally less deep than waking from death in Svip's house.

The morning sun stabbed at my eyelids. Resignedly I forced my eyes to open. When I had blinked myself into reality, I found that I was lying on my back on the floor of my Great Hall.

I struggled up to one elbow and studied the scene about me.

Merry and Pippin lay asleep at either side of me, stretched out diagonally to me as though I were the stem and they the branches of some gigantic rune. Merry still clutched in his hand one of the _mithril _goblets inlaid with galloping ivory horses, that had been part of Théodhild's dowry. At first glance I did not see that Pippin and I had been using others of the set, but a brief investigation revealed two more of them under the sofa behind me. At some point, I thought, we must have shoved them under there; that, or someone else had done so, to keep us from knocking them over in our sleep. Next to the goblets I found two bottles: a Calenhad whiskey, upright and half-empty, but unstoppered, and an empty wine bottle lying on its side. When I pulled this forth, I discovered it to be one of my cellar's vintages from the reign of Belecthor II. I allowed myself a moment's regret that I couldn't remember drinking it.

I did not remember much, in fact, after our ride home to the White City. Frowning at the goblets, I hoped that I had not become maudlin over them. Being relics of my marriage, and our drinking session having taken place on a day when I had just had a proposal of marriage rejected, Valar knew what tearfulness those goblets might have called forth in me.

Sprawled on the sofa lay Gimli Son of Glóin, rumbling out his guttural snores that were so familiar to me from our journeying together. Curled up asleep in one of the armchairs by the fireplace was Frodo. Appropriately enough, Sam lay stretched out like a faithful dog at the foot of his chair. The gardener looked completely comfortable, despite the fact that his bed was nothing but flagstones. Beside the chair, I noticed two tankards and another open bottle of whiskey.

The occupant of the other armchair was very much awake. Sitting cross-legged, and far too cheerful for the circumstances, was Legolas, bright-eyed and sipping from a cup of tea. When he saw me looking in his direction he raised his teacup in salute and hailed me, "Good morning, Boromir."

"'Morning," I acknowledged, not quite ready to commit myself on whether it was good or not. "What are you doing, being so chipper? I swear you drank more than the rest of us combined."

"There is a simple answer to that," he said. "I am still drunk. Ask for me this evening, and you will find me a thoroughly unhappy Elf."

"That is something, anyway," I grumbled.

I levered myself up from the floor and made my aching way over to Legolas. On the end table beside him I had noticed a steaming teapot, a selection of cups, and a plate heaped high with scones and slices of bread. Legolas obligingly poured for me some tea. I stood there holding the cup in both hands, letting the heat of it bite into me while I surveyed the rest of the room.

In his washtub, near to where my feet had been when I was sleeping, lay Svip, looking entirely peaceful and content. He was snoring his familiar little wheezing snore, and his head was propped on one of the silk-covered cushions from the armchairs. Other cushions from armchairs and sofa lay scattered about on the floor beside the washtub, in varying degrees of wetness. I thought that Dame Weltrude would not appreciate that. But at this point, soaked and water-stained cushions probably held a fairly low rank on the list of my irritating eccentricities.

I asked Legolas, "Do you know what time it is?"

"It must be getting close to the Second Hour now," he said, "based on when I last heard the bells."

"Good," I said. "Then I've still got time before the Council session."

I swigged my tea, put down the cup and grabbed up a piece of bread. "How bad do I look?" I asked, between hasty bites.

The Elven prince eyed me appraisingly and reported, "You look very respectable, considering."

I snorted. "It's that 'considering' that I was concerned about."

Finishing wolfing down the bread, I said, "I'll go get cleaned up a bit and then head to the Citadel." A sudden annoying thought occurring to me, I asked, "You aren't insisting on going to see Aragorn with me too, are you?"

"No," he said placidly. "I think you'll be perfectly able to handle that conversation without me."

"Good. Thank you. If the others start waking up soon, do me a favour and try to delay them from coming after me. This is a reckoning I would like to face on my own."

Scant minutes later I was tromping up the road to the Citadel, cursing the sun a little and trying to will away the pounding ache in my head.

It struck me that it was a damned long time since I had suffered any significant memory loss from drink – as opposed to suffering memory loss from being too long away from the Great River.

_Wonderful, _I thought. _So you have been drinking like a kid again. And now you'll get to _feel_ like a kid again, too, having to own up your faults to Aragorn in the same office where you've endured so many a lecture from your father._

What Aragorn's reaction would be to my story of last night's foolishness, I had honestly no idea. That realisation was a bit unnerving. I thought that I could predict pretty accurately what my father's response would be, down to the precise wording of each scathing comment. But going like a schoolboy to confess my failings to Schoolmaster Aragorn, was an irritatingly unknown quantity.

_It will not kill you, _I told myself with a sneer. _What is he going to do, demote you? So what if he does? You have already tried to resign the Captain-Generalship, which resignation he refused to accept. So if he does strip you of that rank because of last night's idiocy, then so much the better._

I had been certain that Aragorn would be at work already before the Council session, and I was right. I thought it a pretty safe bet that Faramir, too, was even now already at work in his office in the White Tower, although I had no doubt that while he was working, he was cursing his aching head.

Aragorn stood up from his desk to greet me, with a puzzled smile. "Good morning, Boromir," he said. "What brings you abroad so early?"

"I want to give you my account of last night's incident."

Puzzled frown replacing his puzzled smile, he answered, "Very well. Will you be seated?"

"Thank you, no. I prefer to stand."

Looking not particularly pleased at being cast in the role of dispenser of justice, Aragorn returned to his chair. "Go on," he told me.

I began, "Yesterday the Lady Éowyn informed Faramir, Merry and me that she would accept none of our proposals of marriage."

He sucked in a startled breath. "I had not heard that," he said. "I am sorry."

"Thank you. At my suggestion, the three of us went out drinking in Waterfront last night, along with the other Hobbits, Legolas and Gimli, and Svip. We imbibed quite heavily, and I assume that we were fairly boisterous when we left the tavern; at any event, we were singing. On our way to the Harlond stables, we encountered two of your Rangers on Night Watch duty. One was called Halvor; I do not know the name of the other."

"Ah," he said, looking as though the mention of Halvor explained a lot. "I see. Go on."

"The Rangers informed us that we were disturbing the peace, and that if we did not quiet of our own volition, they would be compelled to arrest us. Halvor took the lead in these efforts, and he and I soon exchanged heated words. When he put his hand upon me, I assume with the intention of hauling me away, I struck him."

"Ah," Aragorn said again, noncommittal of voice and face.

"His fellow Ranger and Legolas were able to calm Halvor down, and we parted without further incident. I have come to you to apologise for striking one of your Men, and I await your judgement."

"I see," he repeated, "and I thank you for that. It may surprise you to learn," Aragorn continued, "that your report is the first I have heard of the incident."

"It does surprise me," I admitted. "From Halvor's attitude last night, I would have expected him to report on it to you before the roosters were out of bed."

"Perhaps, in the cold light of day, he recalled that I do not appreciate my Men running tattling to me like boys telling tales out of school. And now, for the gods' sakes," he went on, "will you please sit down? Let us cease being officer and commander, and be simply friends."

"Thank you," I said rather awkwardly, taking a seat. I admitted to myself that if I had attempted to imagine how this interview might go, I was not likely to have come up with this scenario.

Aragorn gave a weary sigh, sat back, and rubbed his hands over his face. "It is unfortunate," he said, "that it was Halvor you encountered. With many another of my Men, there would have been little or no difficulty." After a moment's thought, he went on, "His partner would have been Åsmund, I believe. I assume he took little part in the incident?"

"Very little, save to try to get Halvor out of it. I doubt that things would have escalated as they did, had only he been involved."

Aragorn nodded. "Halvor is a young Man of very strong opinions. One of those opinions which he has frequently stated, despite all evidence to the contrary, is that the Men of Gondor are effete city-dwellers who have spent the last Age living lives of indolence and sloth, while we Rangers of the Northlands have single-handedly held back the dark."

"Indeed," I agreed. "He said something of the sort last night. To be fair, however, he also said that he has had enough of the Guards of the Citadel lording it over him and his comrades. From speaking with them on this subject myself, I am certain that many do precisely that. If Halvor thinks us effete city-folk who've done nothing for the past Age, then many of Gondor's armed forces believe – despite all evidence to the contrary – that the Northmen are jumped-up country yokels who may have encountered an Orc here and there, but know nothing of the true horrors of battling Sauron's darkness."

"Indeed," echoed Aragorn. "So we are back to the same question that we have been wrestling: how to convince our various forces that they are comrades instead of enemies."

"Yes," I said. "It will take time, and it will also require much more thorough integration of our forces, however desperately all involved will resist the process. I have been mulling over an idea on this," I went on, "an idea which will cause Captain Brithnoth to howl like a wolf with its foot in a trap, when he hears of it. Such reactions notwithstanding, I believe the idea has merit. In fact, it is a concept that has been discussed in years past, but has consistently been shelved due to the Citadel Guards' outrage that we might depart from the way things have always been done."

Aragorn smiled wryly, and said, "That sounds like something worth hearing."

"An issue we have faced for centuries is the very nature of the Citadel Guard. All of them are Men who have been recommended for the posting due to their exemplary deeds in other branches of the service. But once they become Citadel Guards, they hold that post for life. And so we find ourselves with some of our finest soldiers being stuck in a posting which can mean that they never sight a glimpse of the foe. By tradition the Guards of the Citadel never are sent forth from the City, except when the Steward himself rides to war. When the Steward does go into combat, some portion of the Citadel Guard does generally ride with him, but the majority of their force is still expected to remain on guard over the Citadel itself. Yet with the exception of thankfully rare occasions such as our recent siege, this means that once they have gained the honour of being posted to the Citadel Guard, many of these Men never see combat again, for the rest of their lives. Indeed, I know of a goodly number of soldiers who have declined the honour of this posting, precisely because they do not wish to condemn themselves to a life of no greater action than standing guard over a pile of stone.

"It has been suggested, many a time, that appointment to the Citadel Guard could become a temporary posting. A Man might serve here for five years, say, and then return to his previous regiment. Thus could we avoid the notion that a posting to the Citadel in fact prevents a Man from fighting for his country. And thus might we also decrease the risk of the staleness that can come from decade upon decade performing the same duty.

"It has been suggested," I continued, "but ever the forces of it-has-always-been-this-way turn their catapults against the concept, and never has anyone been willing to commit to the struggle that would be necessary to force through such a change.

"But now that we face the question of how best to integrate your regiment into the regular forces of Gondor, I think the time is come to face that challenge head-on. Did the Citadel Guard become a temporary posting, with all branches of the service equally eligible including the Northern Rangers, then there would not be a question of trying to shoe-horn your Rangers into an otherwise unchanged body of Men. And there would also not be the major disincentive there is now, when in order to serve in the Citadel Guard, the Rangers should theoretically give up the life that they love in exchange for the dubious honour of never seeing combat more."

Aragorn smiled. "You are right," he said, "it is an idea which we should fight to bring to fruition. And I cravenly hope it will be you who first mentions the concept to Captain Brithnoth, not I!"

I grinned, and suggested, "Is that to be my punishment for striking young Halvor?"

This called forth a thoughtful frown from him. "No," he said, "I have a different notion on that. Let me, instead, ask you to take Halvor under your wing – that should be more than enough punishment for both of you. There is more that I have not told you of Halvor's history. His father was Halbarad – my cousin who, as I mentioned to you, was slain here in battle on the day the siege was broken."

"Damnation," I said. "I see."

"He will, of course, fiercely resist any idea that I am asking you to try and take his father's place. And never would I make that suggestion, for I know it would be worse than useless. But though you do not seek to replace his father, there is no doubt that he will benefit from a more experienced warrior's guidance. It will be no very pleasant duty for you; but you are used to unpleasant duties. If you do seek a judgement from me, then here it is: that you shall continue in your role as the officer most directly involved in the quest to integrate our forces, and that Halvor shall act as your assistant, representing the interests of the Rangers of the North."

"Phew," said I. "That _will _be fun. I will say this, Sire: you certainly can inflict a stinging judgement. Here I thought you would only demote me, and instead you condemn me to constantly hearing myself referred to as a 'lily-fingered Southerner.'"

He smiled again, but something about what I had said troubled him. Aragorn glanced at the candle-clock in its sconce on the wall, then said, "We have a little time yet to talk before we must head to the Council. Boromir … there is something of which, for some days now, I have wanted to speak with you."

It was my turn now to frown in puzzlement. "Speak," I said.

"It is a theory that has come to me, to explain certain of your actions that have otherwise seemed a mystery. I think," he went on, "you will not care to hear this."

If I would not care to hear what he wished to say, it seemed that Aragorn was equally reluctant to speak of it. He studied me with a gaze that I found difficult to decipher: perhaps an odd sort of mixture of concern, sympathy, and impatience.

He said, "I do not know how close this may be to reality. You alone can know the truth of that. But I have wondered if some of your actions this month past can be traced back to that day at Amon Hen."

At that, I frowned more darkly. I tensed both at the thought that he might be about to take me to task for that day, and at the memories and emotions which that name evoked in me.

Aragorn continued, "It was your mention of demoting you, just now, that made me think of it again. Your resignation as Steward, and your refusal to take any part in the debate on my kingship – and then more recently, your attempt to resign the post of Captain-General: I have wondered if these were due in part to the fact that – perhaps even without your conscious knowledge – you do not believe you have the right to be alive."

I stared at him, startled and robbed of speech.

Automatically I wanted to deny that statement. But I found that I could not.

He pressed onward, "When you told me of your attack on Frodo, you said 'I am sorry. I have paid.' I have wondered if you feel that Svip robbed you of that, when he gave you back your life. If you feel that your return has left your debt unpaid once more. And if you have sought to pay that debt by re-creating the effects of your death.

"Had you remained dead, you could never have taken your place as Steward, nor could you have played any role in accepting or denying my right as king. I have wondered if you are still attempting to pay for Amon Hen, by taking from yourself the rights and opportunities that should be part of your life.

"If there is any truth in this, Boromir," Aragorn said forcefully, "I hope that you will stop it. Your people, your brother, your friends – all of us need you _alive_. Not trapped by your guilt in some kind of living death."

"I – " I had to swallow and start again. "I do not know what to say."

"Don't feel that you have to say anything," he said. "Just promise me that you will think on it. That is all I ask."

"I can promise you that," I said, the words coming from me in a rush. "I am thinking on it now."

I was thinking on it indeed. And I thought, _He is right_.

The reasons I had given before, to myself and to Faramir, were still valid. I was certain of that. The public reason I had stated in my resignation – the restrictions imposed on me by my dependence on the Great River – as well as the more petty personal reasons, my desire to be only the Steward I had dreamed of being, and my dislike for the notion of serving as Steward to Aragorn – all of those still held true. Although I had to confess to myself that after these weeks of his kingship, the notion of working as closely with him as the Steward must needs do, no longer seemed nearly such an impossibility as once it had appeared to me.

But yet, I thought now, there was another motivation beneath all of the others. It was a motivation that Aragorn had seen, although it had remained dark to me.

I thought, _He saw it. It is true._

"Boromir," said Aragorn, "for whatever my opinions may be worth: I do believe that you have paid. You paid in your fight to save Merry and Pippin, and in your death. And you have paid for it in the guilt and grief that you have put yourself through, since that day."

He gazed at me steadily. "I believe that your debt is paid in full. I hope you can accept that, and can live fully, as a Man who will fight to build the future in which he believes. Not as a Man who will forever be dragged backward by his past."

A small corner of my mind that still automatically wants to be critical of anything Aragorn says went into action at that point, carping that this latest statement of his sounded like the ready-made philosophies one receives from fortune-tellers at village fairs. But I found I had no need to forcibly restrain the words. I had no desire to say them.

There are times in our lives when sarcasm has no value. No matter how hackneyed the sentiment might sound – and no matter how troubled my history with the Man who had said it – his were words that I needed to hear.

_And,_ I told myself, _I do not need to disdain whatever Aragorn says. _

_It is what my father would do._

_But – whether this be a cause for satisfaction, or for regret – I am not my father._

I wondered if I could move forward simply by telling myself that I needed to.

And I thought, _I have to, for all of our sakes._

I had lingered at Amon Hen long enough.

"Thank you, Aragorn," I said.

With a faint smile, Aragorn remarked, "If what I have said _did_ play a role in your resignation, then I'm sorry if the punishment you've inflicted on yourself robbed me of the chance to have you as my Steward. I love and value your brother," he went on. "He has done nothing to deserve being removed from his post as Steward, a position he fills with integrity, skill and honour. I would never wish to remove him from it. Yet the post was yours. And I cannot help regretting that you may have sacrificed your Stewardship, for the sake of what I can only see as your misplaced guilt."

Stunned and shaken though I felt, at these comments of his I could not help but laugh.

"By the gods," I mused, shaking my head, "why would you want to have me as your Steward?"

"Why would I not?" he asked.

"Oh, no particular reason. Only the fact that ere the first fortnight was out, we'd be very likely to have murdered each other!"

"We did not murder each other on the road with the Fellowship," Aragorn pointed out. "Why should it be worse as Steward and King?"

"On the road with the Fellowship," said I, "we could always stomp to the front or the back of the party, and get as far away from the other as possible, when our company got too much to be endured. Constant stomping away, I think, would not do much for the working relationship of the King and the Steward."

Wryly Aragorn said, "For the sake of my own self-esteem, I will try not to think too much of which of us you are under-estimating. Perhaps, I can hope, both of us." He continued, with a look of greater seriousness, "If you'll permit me to remark, I do not recall that I've noticed over-much shouting and stomping on either of our parts, since I became king."

I felt a weird sort of wistful regret: the regret of the Man who loathes to give up his conviction of how he'd believed things would be – even in the face of the strongest of evidence that he was wrong.

"No," I admitted, with a sigh. "You are right. I have not noticed much of it, either. At least," I added ruefully, "not nearly so much of it as I expected to."

"I do recall," he went on, "your vow to me on Ostoher's Hill, that you will always give me your opinions and advice, whether or not I have sought them out. And I recall my reply that your opinions and advice will be welcome always; perhaps most of all, when I have not sought them. I hope that you intend to keep your side of that bargain. For I fully intend to keep my side of it."

"I do intend to keep that bargain, Sire," I said.

At that last word, he grimaced. "None of this 'Sire' nonsense," he ordered. "Not in private, anyhow. After all that we have endured together, I am certain that you can bring yourself to call me 'Aragorn.'"

Startled anew, I had to grin. "Damn!" I exclaimed. "You certainly do impose challenging tasks upon me. Now I shall find myself biting my tongue, whenever I start to call you 'Sire.'"

"Speaking of imposing challenging tasks," said Aragorn. "I do not think you have yet given me your answer on whether you'll accept my troubled friend Halvor as your assistant in the work to integrate our troops."

"I will, of course," I said. "It is perhaps the least that either of us can expect in recompense for our altercation yesterday. And it will certainly be useful to have someone involved who can give the disgruntled Rangers' point of view on the process. I only hope that he can be induced not to keep trying to arrest me."

"I'll suggest to him that he might want to keep that to a minimum," Aragorn smiled. "And now," he added, glancing at the candle clock again, "we really do need to get to the Council session."

As we walked swiftly along the corridor, the King remarked to me, "Do you know what I regret the most about your incident of last night? It is an unworthy thought, no doubt. But when you spoke of your trip to the tavern, I could not help but think of the fact that by becoming king, I may have condemned myself to never being able to take a quiet drink in a tavern again."

I gave a rather guilty grimace, thinking again of how unwilling I had been to invite Aragorn along on our trip to the Orc's Head.

He continued, "I fear there is now no tavern in Minas Tirith or within the Pelennor where I could long sit unrecognised. And while I cannot claim great intimacy with any of them – not, at least, intimacy of a more recent vintage than forty years in the past – I suspect that in few of our taverns would the customers or staff be over-happy to find the King in their midst."

"There are a few where they would probably not object," I said, "the tourist taverns in the upper levels. But I suspect you would find such places as unsatisfactory as I find them."

"Aye," said Aragorn, with an eloquent look. "I should prefer not to swill over-priced and watered-down ale while sitting on display for the farm families who are treating themselves to a day out in the City."

I grinned at the accuracy of Aragorn's depiction of that particular breed of Minas Tirith tavern. Evidently, those establishments had not changed over the past forty years.

"There may be none within the Pelennor where you could drink in peace," I suggested, "but perhaps along the shores of Lossarnach there may be few enough citizens who have recently sojourned in the City, that your countenance would go unrecognised. We could go on a quest to see how far we must voyage before you regain anonymity – in, of course, that free time that hangs so heavily upon the hands of both of us."

"Indeed," he said ruefully. "I fear it may be years before that quest is fulfilled."

"In the meantime," I said, "I can at least invite you for a drink at my townhouse. It has not quite the ambiance of a good tavern, but there will be fewer people staring at you. And, we can hope, fewer people attempting to arrest us."

"That last, at least, seems certain," Aragorn said. "I will most gratefully accept your invitation. Some other night, perhaps," he added, grinning, "so that your enjoyment of the evening may not be tarnished by your enjoyment of the evening before."

"Thank you, Sire – I mean, Aragorn," I said, bowing to him. "There is the old wisdom that the best way to avoid a hangover is simply to remain drunk, but I fear I am too late to apply that remedy."

I tried to suppress the uneasy suspicion that I had only invited Aragorn to my townhouse in order to assuage my feelings of guilt at not having invited him last night. It was not so, I told myself; I had every reason to believe that he would be an entertaining companion with whom to drink. But I also could not deny I was relieved to find that he himself saw clearly the drawbacks of attempting to visit the taverns, and that he was not trying to invite himself out to the Orc's Head.

We stepped from the King's House into the morning sunshine – and found ourselves faced by a delegation consisting of Frodo and his three fellow Hobbits, Legolas and Gimli, and Svip. The water creature and the two younger Hobbits had all been sitting on the paving stones, but they jumped to their feet when we appeared – or at least, they got to their feet relatively swiftly, considering last night's entertainment and the early hour of the morning.

"I'm sorry, Boromir," said the Elf, "I did my best to hold them back, but they were having none of it. I did, at least, convince them to wait here outside for you."

"But we were about to go in after you, anyway," put in Svip. The look that he cast at Aragorn stopped short of being overtly hostile, but not by much.

"I almost woke up in time to catch you, Boromir," said Frodo, eyeing me sternly. "I think I must have been waking up at just about the time you headed out of the house."

"I am sorry, Frodo," I told him. "I hope you can understand why I felt I had to undertake this alone."

The Ringbearer nodded curtly, but he still looked very far from pleased.

"You haven't done anything too horrible to him, have you, Strider?" piped up Pippin. "It really was all of our faults. It was all of us making the noise. And it was a Hobbit song we were singing. So in that sense, we four may be more at fault than anyone else!"

"No, fear not, my friends," I said, "my punishment should not be too heavy to bear. His Majesty has only condemned me to work on a particular project with Ranger Halvor as my assistant."

There were various startled laughs and exclamations, and Pippin chortled, "What, the Southern bastard working with the whoreson Northerner?"

Aragorn raised his eyebrows at me on that, but only said, "Yes, precisely." The King looked around at our comrades then, and said to them, "Since you have already nobly arisen from your beds – or from wherever you may have been sleeping – would you care to join us at this morning's Council session? I intend to make a proclamation at this morn's meeting which should be of interest to you, seeing as all of you take an interest in Boromir's career."

In surprise, I cast him a questioning frown. But he would vouchsafe me only a faint and mysterious smile.

"You Men certainly know how to have fun," snorted Gimli, with a rather jaundiced look. "Of course, naturally what we all want to do after our first binge of the new Age is to spend the morning trying not to fall asleep in a session of the Council of Gondor." But, with only a few other grumbles, all of them began to trail along with us, I suppose unable to resist the intrigue of Aragorn's veiled statement.

For my part, I could not help but find this hint of his puzzling and annoying. I scarcely thought it likely that he planned to trouble the Council with word of my new assignment with young Ranger Halvor. And yet – if he did not, in fact, intend to demote me – what other proclamation might he make this morning that had a bearing on my career?

I was disagreeably reminded of his way of doing things during the voyaging of the Fellowship, when he discussed his thoughts on what should be our party's next actions a great deal less frequently and openly than _I _believed they should be discussed. But I firmly quashed that recollection. Now, when Aragorn and I were getting along so well, was not the time to dwell upon past irritations.

As we neared the Tower of Ecthelion, Aragorn remarked, "I must say I will be grateful when the government's schedule attains enough normality that we are no longer compelled to spend the half of each day in meetings."

On that, I entirely agreed with him. "Aye," I said. "It will be a refreshing change to be permitted to actually work, instead of spending each morning talking of what work we're going to do."

Aragorn and I were among the last members of the Council to arrive. Pages hastened about bringing additional chairs for our guests, although Svip declined one and instead sat on the floor by my feet.

Faramir cast at me a rather wan smile as I was taking my seat at his side. He also gave me a look of question as our other drinking companions milled about, waiting for their chairs. But there was not the time to fill him in on any of the details he had missed last night, before the morning's meeting commenced.

The day of which Aragorn and I had spoken was hopefully nigh upon us, for the time drew close when the work of the government should no longer require the full Council sitting in discussion. Indeed, if business went well today, it might be possible for the lords and other representatives from the outlands to set forth for their homelands upon the morrow.

We had, it seemed, near to finished the last wrangling upon the amounts of the payments due from the southern fiefdoms in recompense for their having failed to send their full complements of Men when my father summoned their aid. It was a mathematical juggling act that no doubt had kept many a clerk awake through full many a night, balancing out the reckoning between the payments owed by the fiefdoms, and the payments due from our central government to the families of each Man who had been slain or incapacitated in our country's battles.

Every fiefdom save for Dol Amroth owed something, for Uncle Imrahil had been the only commander from the southlands who brought his full complement of Men at the Steward Denethor's call. Yet the payment owed by some became small indeed, when one subtracted from it the funds that we must pay out for the Men who had been lost.

Least of all was owed from Morthond, whose five hundred bowmen had been near the number due from them, and whose account also reflected the deaths of the sons of their lord. The largest of these debts was due from Ringló Vale, which fact caused Lord Kirilhir to glower like a troll, but against which, in truth, there was little he could say. The three hundreds he had sent under the command of his son were more than several other fiefdoms had mustered, yet compared to the Vale's population, that number fell woefully short. And Ringló had not even the excuse of those lands along the River and the coast, that they had held back the greater portion of their fighting forces to defend their people against the Umbar Corsairs.

Lengthy segments of a number of Council sessions had been devoted to exploring the niceties of these debts, and debating how they should properly be balanced against a multitude of extenuating circumstances. Today, if no lord or representative came up with some new objection to the numbers upon which we had determined, all should be prepared for the commanders of the outlands to begin their journeys home. They would turn homeward armed with the reckoning of the fees that their lands must pay to Gondor, and of the sums they must pay out to their people who had suffered loss, by which amounts the debts that the fiefdoms owed were reduced.

It seemed that no objection was forthcoming. In the absence of such, Aragorn soon turned to the mystery of which he had hinted on our way to the meeting.

He said, "My Lords, Captains and Masters, as many of you will soon depart for your own lands, I wish to make a proclamation while all are still here to witness it.

"All of you, I am certain, have heard of the restrictions imposed upon Lord Boromir by the circumstances of his return from the dead. Those restrictions are what led him to resign the Stewardship that was his by birth, in his concern that he would be unable to perform the duties of his office as he wished to, and as our country deserves. In that same concern for our country, a few days past Lord Boromir offered his resignation as Captain-General. This resignation, the Lord Steward Faramir and I refused to accept."

There was a buzz of whispers in response to this news of my latest resignation attempt. While I wondered again if he were going to accept my resignation after all – even though I assured myself that he would never do that in so public a way without speaking with me of it first – Aragorn continued, "I refused to accept that resignation despite Lord Boromir reminding me that in the days of the old kings, it was tradition for the for the office of Captain-General to be held by the King's eldest son."

Smiling warmly at me, the King went on, "I have told Lord Boromir that when such time comes that I have a son of sufficient age and responsibility to fulfil the office of Captain-General, then if he still wishes the Son of Denethor may step down – after training his successor in the office. Yet though the Lord Steward and I do not accept his resignation, well do I understand his frustration at feeling that there are responsibilities of his office that he can no longer achieve.

"I would answer this by creating a new office, an office that matches his great abilities and the unique resources at his command. For Lord Boromir is not alone restricted by his new relationship with the Great River. He has also gained by it; gained skill in traversing its waters which none other of the race of Men possess, and gained the respect and trust of the River itself. I do not speak this as metaphor, but as literal truth. Boromir's experiences with the Anduin have proved beyond any doubt that our country's River is indeed a deity as the ancient peoples of this land believed."

There followed, unsurprisingly, many a whisper of surprise at that. Aragorn did not allow himself to be drawn into a discussion of our nation's myths and their basis in reality. Instead he continued, "I propose that Lord Boromir be made Captain of Anduin. Let him command all military operations that take place upon its waters, and let him also have supervision of those civic works undertaken on the River and its shores. With your approval, gentlemen, I would this morn hail Boromir as Captain of Anduin, and ask him if he will accept that post at the request of his country."

That approval was swift in coming, in the form of a motion and second by Imrahil and Éomer, and the vote of acclamation by the rest of the Council. I stood and bowed to Aragorn, and voiced my acceptance and thanks. But what he spoke next had a far greater impact upon me than did the creation of this new title that carried with it duties which in all probability I would have undertaken even had that title never existed.

Aragorn said, "The first project that I would ask our new Captain of Anduin to set in motion is the reconstruction of Osgiliath."

I stared at him in astonishment, wondering if I could possibly have heard him aright. Doubtless, many others of the Council were doing likewise. The King went on, "You need not fear, gentlemen; I will not seek to push through irreversible actions on this project without the presence of the full Council to meet upon it. At such a time when our nation's resources are so badly strained, and when we face so many inescapable expenses to rebuild our war-torn country, I know that I would encounter full many a voice of opposition did I attempt now to divert our swift-dwindling funds to rebuild a city that has lain in ruins for more than 1400 years.

"But I have read the reports that Lord Boromir has submitted upon the project, and I believe that he is correct: the reconstruction of the City of the Stars is work that we should begin in our days, although our children's children may well have grown old when that work is not yet complete. As we have stated that we dwell now in the days of a new Age, let one of the ways in which we act upon that change be to commence rebuilding the city which once was the jewel of Gondor, and one of the wonders of this Middle Earth. As the new Osgiliath rises from the ruins, let it proclaim for all to see, both how we embrace our new beginnings, and how we honour the achievements of our country's past.

"I have said that I will not attempt to slip through any expenses on this project while the full Council is not here to approve them. There is work aplenty that can be done upon it before ever the first expense is needed. Lord Boromir and the team he has assembled have prepared the first plans and recommendations for how this reconstruction may be undertaken. I would ask him now to examine in more detail what our first steps should be, what work must commence first to set this process in motion – and of course, what work we may do first that will involve the minimum expense to Gondor."

My brain was spinning slightly as I listened to Aragorn's speech, and I do not think that was the effect of the previous night's drinking. I had more than half a suspicion that I might wake up to find myself still on my Great Hall's floor, and learn that all of this morning had in fact been a dream.

I bowed again and managed to say to him, "My Lord, I will joyously commence this work that has been a dream of mine since childhood, and that has been a fantasy of dreamers in Gondor from Eldacar's days until today."

As was in no way unexpected, many a Councillor was very little pleased to find Aragorn promising his support to this project. But the King's pledge of no immediate expense was enough to quiet their most pressing concerns, and to at least convince them that they could probably return to their lands without fearing that Aragorn and I would drain the treasury the instant they turned their backs.

When the meeting ended, a throng of well-wishers surrounded me to offer their congratulations. First to speak thus was Faramir, who grinned as he shook hands with me and clasped my shoulder, and said, "Congratulations on Osgiliath."

Well did my brother know, better than any other, how much this project meant to me. For it was he with whom, in our youth, I had spent endless hours spinning my fantasies, the solemn-faced boy patiently listening while in my glorious imaginings I rebuilt the Citadel of the Stars.

I grinned back and said, "Perhaps fewer congratulations are due for being told to launch this project without spending any money. I was just telling His Majesty that he seems to enjoy thinking up the most challenging tasks to settle upon me."

The crowds at length dispersed enough that I could snatch a few moments' speech with Aragorn. As I shook his hand in gratitude, I said to him, "We are in public now, so I need not turn myself inside out in attempting not to call you 'Sire' – Sire, I thank you for this with all my heart. I have not quite the vanity to imagine that you have decided on this work simply to assure that I will live fully, as you have urged me to do. But if you did have such a scheme in mind, you could not have found any project better suited to achieve that goal, than this."

Smiling, he said, "In truth, it is not such a scheme. This is work in which I believe, regardless of its effect upon our Captain-General. Yet if it does have that effect, then it needs nothing else to confirm me in my belief that this project is worth our labours."

I spent the remainder of that day buoyed up by delight, which neither the previous night's excesses nor any lingering melancholy at the close of we three suitors' courtships could do anything to dim. Even my interview later in the day with young Halvor Son of Halbarad could not dampen my good cheer.

I had chosen to seek out the young Man in the Northern Rangers' temporary barracks in the Citadel, rather than summon him to my office. I reasoned that whatever working relationship we might be able to develop would get off to a better start if I met with him on something like his own ground. His self-assurance of the previous night notwithstanding, in approaching this interview Halvor was likely to feel that he was on far shakier footing than I.

I had only to face a youth before whom I had appeared in drunk and disorderly condition. Halvor had to face a high-ranking officer who might, if I so wished, have the power to seriously damage Halvor's career.

Aragorn had presumably notified him to expect this meeting, for he greeted my arrival with a grimly resigned mien. The young Man seemed none the worse for our encounter of the night before, save perhaps for the air he had about him of being perpetually on parade for uniform inspection, and the way in which his gaze never fixed on me but instead focused somewhere beyond my right shoulder. But that is the way in which some soldiers always interact with officers, even when they have not attempted to arrest said officer for drunkenness.

Halvor bowed to me, face carefully blank, when I suggested that we walk along the City walls. Figuring that any small talk would only sound insulting, as soon as we were without the barracks I said, "I apologise to you for my behaviour of last night. You were acting within your duty, and it was the amount I had imbibed that prevented me from discussing our differences of opinion in a more civilized fashion."

"Thank you, sir," he said stiffly. "I apologise to you if devotion to my duty led me to act with an excess of zeal."

"Excess of zeal is a fault of youth, if it be a fault at all," I said. "With time you may perhaps learn some moderation, as well as the niceties for negotiating with drunken Men, but you need not apologize for being young. I believe most officers would rather encounter an enthusiastic young warrior who may temper his steel as he grows in experience, than one who errs to the opposite extreme and shirks the performance of his duty."

"Yes, sir," he answered. Looking still mightily uncomfortable at having to speak with me at all, he proceeded to share a confidence that I would certainly never have expected from him, given his attitude of the previous night. I did not think it likely that this change of heart was solely his own doing. It seemed clear that Aragorn had had speech with him between the end of the Council session and this meeting. I assumed that the King had given young Halvor a significant lecture on the need to respect his new countrymen, and on the fact that not all we of Gondor are as lily-fingered as Halvor believed us to be.

Halvor said, "Sir, I will tell you that it was in my mind this morn to ask the King to send me back to our own lands. This is no life for us here. We are not city-dwellers; we have no business here with paving stones under our feet, enclosed under roofs and within walls, where we cannot get air to breathe. But our Lord has informed me that he requires me here, to serve under your command in the work to integrate the troops of the North into the armies of Gondor. I will obey his orders – though I do not see what use I can be to you, when in my heart I believe that none of us should be here!"

I warmed to the youth at that revelation. That warmth built upon the sympathy I already felt for him in knowing that he had lost his father scant weeks before I had lost mine.

It still, at times, seemed something I scarce could accept or even comprehend, to know that I lived now in a world in which my father dwelt no more. Facing that same knowledge when one had barely crossed the threshold into manhood, had a grimness of prospect that I loathed even to contemplate.

So I spoke to Halvor Son of Halbarad, telling him in confidence the same things I had said to Aragorn about the possibility of restructuring the Citadel Guard. He listened with seemingly new interest, thinking perhaps for the first time that there might be something to which he could look forward in this business of working under my command.

When I closed that interview, I did so with the opinion that while I might not precisely have gained a friend that day, at least I need not count young Halvor as my enemy.

As the evening drew near, the thought came to me that my hangover seemed to have a more vigorous hold upon me than I would have expected of it, by this time of the day. And then I remembered that for nearly the first time since the siege of Minas Tirith, I had skipped my daily visit to the River.

I had utterly forgotten that morning ritual in the drink-benumbed state in which I had made my way to Aragorn's office. So Svip and I decided to repair that omission with an end-of-the-day trip to Anduin. Together we set forth from the Office of Rehousing, where I had been skimming through the latest reports and Svip had been helping the clerks to file the records that listed our citizens who had returned to this date, and the locations of the homes to which they were heading.

In a gingerly and rueful fashion Svip attempted his transformation into horse form, there in the street before the Old Guesthouse. He and I both were relieved to find that he could once again manage this change without mishap.

I'll admit that I was a trifle wary when I took the step of trusting myself to his back. As I had on that very first day when I rode upon the shape-shifter, in the hills beside the Falls of Rauros, I imagined that he might not be able to maintain his horse shape for the duration of our ride. But my uncomfortable musings of toppling to the cobblestones off the back of my suddenly shrunken friend, thankfully came to nought. It seemed that whatever hangover Svip might be suffering, it did not interfere with his ability to hold his form.

As we made that ride at a leisurely and perhaps somewhat cautious pace, Svip asked me about hangovers. He asked me what I felt at that moment, to which I answered, "Dry mouth, headache, and a general collection of aches. Though by this time, some of that may be due to not having visited the River yet today. What about you?"

The horse shrugged one great shoulder – a peculiar gesture to witness, and more so when one is riding upon said horse at the time. He said, "I just feel sort of – fuzzy in my head. And all of my skin itches."

That comment caused me to ponder on the question of how differently hangovers might manifest themselves among the various peoples of our Middle Earth. And that, in turn, recalled to me my brief discussion on the subject with Legolas that morn. I chuckled a little as I recalled his prediction of when he would feel his own hangover at its height. If his reckoning was accurate – and it should be accurate, given his many centuries of experience – then he should be feeling the worst throes of it right about now.

We did not race in the River that afternoon. Instead we lazily paddled and floated about. As we sat then upon our steps, I remarked, "It is odd how swiftly a new thing may become routine. Before I knew you, Svip, each morning I spent here at home I would climb to the top of the White Tower and there watch the dawn. Now, scarce two months after you brought me back … it seems a strange thing not to greet the morning at the River, and then to watch the sunset at the Tower, instead."

"We've a little while 'till sunset," pointed out Svip. "We can still go back to the Tower and watch it there."

And so we did, although I was not entirely free from the nagging internal voice that told me I should instead be looking over my papers on Osgiliath, or fulfilling any number of other duties. Mentally I repeated to myself the sort of argument I would make to Faramir, did he speak to me of such a clash between inclination and the supposed call of duty.

It occurred to me as we climbed to the Tower of Ecthelion's peak that mayhap Svip had his own reasons for wishing to make a pilgrimage to this eyrie, reasons that had naught to do with a desire to watch the sunset over the White City. He sped upward over those many steps so swiftly that even with my longer stride, I was hard-pressed at times to keep up with him.

Out in the gentle evening air once again, he stared fixedly at the door to my father's roof-top sanctuary. He gazed so intensely that at length I said to him, "We can go inside, Svip, if you wish. I think there is no harm in it."

"Yes," he said softly. "Yes, I think I would like to. If you think he wouldn't mind."

"He would not mind," I answered. In truth, I did not know whether my father would mind, or not. But as I thought on it, I concluded that he probably would not, under these circumstances – now that the _palantír_ was gone.

I opened the door, no longer locked in the absence of he who had kept these rooms as his own. We stepped inside. Immaculate and sparsely furnished that chamber had always been, and so it now seemed very little altered. Only the bookcases were gone, they and the histories of Gondor they had contained presumably having been moved to the Steward's Library on Faramir's order.

Svip looked about him with a strange expression, wary and yet somehow eager at the same time. At last he glanced upward, with seeming unwillingness, to the ragged hole in the ceiling that had been torn open in the fall of the Seeing-Stone of Minas Anor.

"I think we may go up there, as well," I said.

The shape-shifter nodded and scurried up the stairs to the attic chamber, with me following after. Here, also, nothing seemed different, save for that indefinable sense of emptiness that accompanies the death of a room's master – and save for the absence of the _palantír_, which seemed almost to have left a half-visible ghost in its wake.

Silently Svip looked around the shadowed little room. Then he gave a quiet sigh and said, "All right. Let's go out again. We're probably missing the sunset."

Down the stairs and out we went, I bringing one of the chairs with me so that Svip could stand on it and see over the parapet. There, with Svip on the chair and me leaning on the battlement beside him, my friend began the tale that had remained untold since he returned from his home beneath Rauros Falls.

He said, "I want to talk with you, Boromir. About your father."

In reply to the questioning look he cast at me, I nodded. I was not really surprised at that statement of his, after the visit we had just made to my father's tower chambers. But when he spoke again, his words followed another path that I did not expect.

Slowly he began, "I haven't told you yet the reason I came back here, back from Rauros. You remember, I said I'd tell you about it – later."

"I remember," I told him. "And you need not tell me of it yet, if you don't wish to. If you are not comfortable with it, the telling can wait. If need be, it can wait forever."

"No," he said, vigorously shaking his head. "No, I want to tell you."

Nonetheless, it was still many moments before he continued.

"I wanted to come back," he said. "I was thinking of it, anyway. The Rangers would have left to go home after resting up for just a day or two, but I asked them to stay on with me for a few days longer. I kept thinking I might do it; I would make up my mind to come back here with them, if I could just work up the courage. But – I haven't told you what made me finally decide I would do it."

He seemed hesitant to go on again without some sort of permission. I nodded and asked him, "What was it?"

"I think … I think maybe I saw your father."

Whatever I might have imagined him saying, certainly that was not it.

I stared blankly at my small green friend. Finally I managed to echo, "My father?"

Svip nodded eagerly, and of a sudden the words flowed from him. "I was asleep in my pool," he said, "and then suddenly I woke up, because I thought it seemed too light in the room. When I opened my eyes I couldn't see any different kind of light, but he was there, sitting next to the fire. He looked … younger, a lot younger, without any grey in his hair. He was wearing his uniform tunic. He looked so much younger, for a moment I thought he was you instead, but it was him. I sat up and stared at him. And he smiled – just a small smile, but a real one. Not like the angry smiles he used to have."

The water creature stopped and looked at me for confirmation, as though asking if I knew the smiles he meant. I knew them all too well.

I nodded again. "Go on, Svip."

Svip took up the story once more.

"'My Lord!' I said. 'Are you all right?'

"He said he was well, and it was his regular voice, just like I remembered, not like a wraith or anything strange, not different at all. I started to get out of the pool, but he said, 'No, don't get out of bed. This isn't a formal visit.' Then he said, 'I hope you don't mind my taking the liberty of coming to your home uninvited.'

"I told him no, of course I didn't mind, and I asked if I could get him something to eat or drink, and started telling him about how much better I've gotten at Men's cooking since I brought you back to life and I didn't know what to cook for you, but he said no again, and he thanked me. He said, looking around, 'I'm glad of the chance to see your house. It is fascinating. It is hard to believe that all of this is a water plant.' Then he told me, 'I hope someday you will work with Faramir on the book he planned to write about your people. It should be written. And he would love to see this.'

"I was staring at him, trying to understand if he was real, but I told him yes, I hoped we'd work on the book, too. Then your father looked troubled, and he said, 'Master Svip, I am sorry for the grief I brought upon you. I'm sorry that my death gave you such pain. It is a poor recompense for the gift you gave to me, in bringing Boromir home to us.'

"I told him it was all right, it wasn't his fault, he didn't have to be sorry. Then he looked at me in that way he had, like he could look straight to the middle of you, and he asked me, 'Are you glad to be home?'

"I didn't really know how to answer that. I told him I was glad to be in my house, and see my collection and everything I'm used to. But I told him – I told him that I missed you. I missed you and Faramir and all of the others. I missed all of you more than I ever thought I would. I told him I'd thought the pain would go away if I left you and went home. But it hadn't. It hadn't. Because now I didn't just miss Lord Denethor. I missed you, too.

"Your father nodded and said to me, 'Boromir misses you. More than he ever expected he would.' Then Lord Denethor asked me if I thought I would consider returning to Minas Tirith.

"'I don't know,' I told him. 'I want to – I think I want to – but I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what will happen, when it happens again. When they leave me. When Boromir dies.'"

Svip broke off his recital at this point and stared down at his feet. Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I reached out and gripped his hand.

"What happened then?" I asked him.

"Your father said, 'I hope you will consider it. For Boromir's sake. And for yours." When I didn't answer him, he said, 'The pain is the price we pay to be close to anyone. But I hope you may find that it is worth the price.'

"'I will consider it, My Lord,' I told him. 'I promise.'

"Lord Denethor smiled at me again, and he said, 'You should go back to sleep. Do you mind if I look about your house a bit more?'

"I told him of course I didn't mind, but I wasn't sleepy at all, and I'd love to show him around. Only maybe somehow he made me go to sleep, because suddenly I woke up again and it was morning, and he was gone."

It was a long moment before I managed to speak.

"Thank you for telling me, Svip," I said to him.

_A dream, _I thought. _A dream, that's all. I am grateful for it, grateful that it brought Svip back. But it was a dream. It couldn't be anything more._

"You think it was a dream," Svip said quietly, a pensive look on his face. "I think so too, sometimes. And sometimes I'm sure it was real. Maybe it was a dream. I don't know. But that morning … that morning, I thought for a while, and then I swam to the Rangers' camp to join them for breakfast, and that's when I told them that we were going home."

Happiness and wonder gripped my heart, to hear Svip speak of Minas Tirith as "home."

For a time we were silent. Together we gazed from the peak of the Tower, over the roofs of the White City and to the shadowed majesty of Mindolluin, dark against the descending sun. We listened to the calls of the wheeling birds, and to the song of the wind that blew to us from Anduin, from the Great River that also was our home.

"Dream or reality," I said at last, "it is true what he said to you. I missed you. More than I can say."

"It's true what I told him, too," Svip answered. "All of it. About missing you. And about being afraid. But when I woke up, I thought about how I would feel if I never saw you again. I knew, then. I knew that it's worth paying the price."

As we gazed over the City, I wondered, _Could it really have happened? Did my father truly appear to Svip? Did he give him that advice? _

_Has my father found that closeness to others is worth the price we pay for it?_

I did not know. But I knew that I would hope he had, for the rest of my life.

* * *

The morn that followed was a time of parting for many. With the deliberations of the full Council ended for this while, there was no longer any impediment to the forces of the Outlands returning to their homes. When the Council session closed, the remainder of that day they devoted to their preparations for departure. The next morning found all in readiness. And among those who would set forth for their homelands were a thousand Riders of Rohan, with Éomer King and the lady his sister.

Near three thousands of his Men, Éomer was leaving here in Gondor, to aid in guarding the return of our people to the Sunland, and in the efforts to salvage Anórien's crops. But the King of Rohan, Lady Éowyn, Elfhelm the Marshal, and one thousand Riders took their journey now to their own land, the land they had not seen since Théoden King rode from Dunharrow to his final battle.

We who had the Valar's speed to wish to them, gathered at their barracks on the Fourth Level ere the hour of departure. I had enough vanity still in me, despite my being a rejected suitor, that I had briefly considered postponing my daily visit to the River until after the Rohirrim rode forth. But I banished that notion, with a laugh and a shake of my head at the foolishness of the thought.

It would likely make little difference to Éowyn if I appeared before her with damp hair, even if I _were_ still her suitor. Since I was not, I told myself, it made no difference at all.

The lady's beauty that morn was such as to call forth sighs from we who had been her suitors – if we had been willing to let her witness our sighs. She was glorious, with her hair gleaming as brightly as the chain mail that she wore, and with a new, carefree happiness to her smile.

I suppose we could have found it insulting that she seemed so glad to be leaving us. But that look was so good to see upon her, that in no way did I grudge it. I could well understand her relief at no longer bearing the burden of considering the suits of the three of us. And of a surety I understood her joy at returning home.

One additional reason for her buoyancy of mood revealed itself in the fact that she was clad as she had not been since the day she slew the King of the Nazgûl: in the uniform of the Riders of Rohan.

I commented to her upon this, saying with a grin, "Since I am not your suitor, Lady, but simply your friend, I will take the liberty of telling you that you look magnificent in your Rider's garb. And it gladdens my heart to see you looking so happy. Although," I added, "I admit I am surprised that Éomer has permitted you to venture abroad in Men's clothing, instead of locking you in a tower for conduct unbecoming the sister of a king."

She grinned back, and replied, "Since we are setting forth on a five days' ride, I suppose he realised that locking me in a tower was impractical. Besides, I suspect my brother may allow me a little extra leeway for a few days to come. I think he fears what mood might descend upon me, in the wake of announcing my decision to the three of you."

The lady added, "Glad I am of it, too, if he does feel such wariness, and I will seize whatever liberty it may win for me. Much though I love to be a-horseback, the ride from Minas Tirith to Edoras is not one that I relish undertaking when hampered by skirts."

In more serious vein she spoke then, "I have exchanged my goodbyes with Merry already this morn; and I will look forward to seeing both him and Lord Faramir again in a few months' time. Lord Aragorn and my brother have agreed that the body of Théoden King will remain here in state until such time as preparations for his funeral are in hand in our country; then Éomer and a Guard of Honour will return here to escort our Fallen King to his home. But I think it likely that I will not be among that guard. My brother will wish to leave me behind, in charge of the continuing preparations for our uncle's funeral. Lord Aragorn has said that a deputation from Gondor will accompany Théoden's return, and I have little doubt that both Merry and your Lord brother will be among their number. I regret that it will not be possible for you to ride with them."

"Aye, Lady," I said. "I regret it as well. I shall have to content myself with writing to you from time to time, if you will grant me your permission to do so."

"Of course I will grant it," she exclaimed, "and your letters will be most welcome. You had no need even to ask."

Svip had been lingering nearby, and now Lady Éowyn looked to him, smiled and held out her hand. She asked him as he crossed to us, "Will you give me your blessings for my journey?"

"Gladly," said the water creature. He looked a little bashful as he went on, "I have something else to give to you, too. I brought it from my collection. I thought I might need it as a wedding gift. But I'll be happy if you'll take it in memory of how you taught me not to fear the horses."

From the pouch at his belt Svip brought forth a glimmering, water-smoothed object that I soon saw to be the boss of a shield. Éowyn gave an exclamation of delight as she accepted the shield boss from Svip, then she held it out for me to study it as well. From the wear upon it, it had spent full many a year as the plaything of Anduin's currents. But the engraving upon it was still clear to be seen. An interlaced pattern of horses spiralled over the boss, the delicate beauty of the workmanship obscured neither by the centuries nor by a great dent across the centre of it, whether caused by a weapon's blow or by its sojourn in the River, none now could tell.

"It is Rohirrim work," Éowyn murmured, "I am certain of it. And ancient work, at that; I am sure that our smiths have not inscribed such patterns since the days of Helm Hammerhand himself."

Svip beamed. "I asked the Rangers about it,' he said, "and Thorolf said he was pretty certain it was Rohirrim. I'm glad he was right."

"I will treasure this," said the lady, "and I ask you to accept my thanks. Although I require no gift to engrave upon my memory the recollection of so true a comrade."

I parted from her then, with a firm hand clasp and the wish, which we both expressed, that we would meet again. Svip and I went to bid a good voyage to Éomer, whom I noticed watching his sister with a bemused and quizzical gaze.

The King of Rohan said to me, as we shook hands, "I am sorry not to be able to hail you as my brother-in-law. But I am glad and proud that I may still hail you as my cousin and my friend."

"I share both that sorrow and that gladness," answered I, "although I regret still more that I am not the brother of your brother-in-law."

"Aye," Éomer said with a nod, glancing once more at Éowyn. "And I share that regret with you." He sighed and said then, "I think I shall never understand my sister."

I followed his gaze, and saw that the lady was speaking now with Faramir.

Deep engrossed did both of them seem in the conversation, so that her brother and I could watch them openly for that time without fear of their noticing. There was no more outward sign of tenderness between them than there had been in my conversation with her, yet somehow – perhaps through simply my own wishful thinking – I thought that I could see greater softness in her gaze as she looked at him; greater wistfulness in her smile.

My thoughts – or as Faramir would term it, my scheming – raced ahead through the months to the journey to Théoden's funeral. As Éowyn had said, I had little doubt that Faramir would be among the party that escorted the Fallen King, and glad was I of that. It might, I thought, serve perfectly to awaken Lady Éowyn to a deeper affection for my brother – always assuming, of course, that such affection was there in her to begin with.

Being parted from him for these months; having the journey home in which she would have little to do save to reflect, and to perhaps find her thoughts turning to the Lord Steward Faramir, oftener far than she would have expected … And then to see him again, in circumstances so redolent of emotion as her Lord uncle's funeral … I thought that I would be very little surprised were Faramir to return from Rohan as the betrothed of the Lady Éowyn.

_Or, _I chided myself, _mayhap Merry will return as her betrothed, or mayhap, and most likely of the three, she will still be betrothed to no one. Most like she spoke neither more nor less than truth, when she said that she wishes to accept none of you. And most like, my dear Boromir, you have created all of this simpering silliness from out of whole cloth, as relentless in your quest for a tale that ends in a wedding as is any romance-loving schoolgirl._

As I was reaching that conclusion, Éomer said to me, "Let us turn our gaze elsewhere, Cousin, and swiftly, too. I would not care for either your Lord brother or the Lady my sister to discover us watching them."

"Aye, Cousin," said I. "On that, also, we agree."

The few remaining leave-takings of the Men of Rohan were soon said. With the well-drilled ease of those who spend their lives upon horseback, they mounted up and set forth.

A formidable escort rode with them to the edge of the Rammas Echor. Amongst these were Aragorn the King, the Steward Faramir, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, the Lord Mithrandir, all four of our Hobbit comrades, Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli of Erebor.

I could not ride with them, at least not with any degree of ease. The North Gate of the Rammas is for me an uncomfortable distance from the Great River. So it was that Svip and I remained behind.

My musings once more leapt forward, to the day when many of these same comrades would again ride northward escorting Théoden King to his home. I would have sighed, hit by the useless wish that I could go with them – both today and on that day months hence.

But this was not a morning for sighing. It was a morning for work.

Svip asked, "Can we go watch them out of sight from the Prow? Do we have time for that?"

"I think we can take the time," I answered. "It will not be long, in any case; the Citadel will block them from our view soon enough."

Taking the hill at near to a gallop, Svip the horse gave me a ride up to the Sixth Level. Custom did not permit of a horse beyond the door to the Citadel tunnel, not even a shape-shifting horse. So, returned to his own form, Svip and I all but ran through the tunnel, then across the Courtyard to the Prow of the City.

Together there, with Svip standing upon the bench at my side, we followed the progress of our friends until the last horse and Rider vanished beyond the northernmost curve of the White City.

As they disappeared, in my thoughts I congratulated myself at being able to at last spend a morning other than in a session of the Council of Gondor.

"Let us go, then, Svip," I said, smiling as I spoke the words. "To Osgiliath!"

He grinned back, and repeated, "To Osgiliath!"

A message from Master Eppa of the Stonemasons' Guild had awaited me the evening before, when Svip and I descended from the Tower of Ecthelion. Eppa, in delight that seemed fairly to leap off the page, reported that the restoration of the Great Stone Bridge was all but complete. It required only that the last stone be set in place. On this, they were holding off until such time as I could be present for that moment, if I so wished.

Decidedly, I did so wish. I had written to Master Eppa appointing with him that I would join them at Osgiliath as soon as the Rohirrim made their departure. Down the Hill of Guard now we hastened once more. Soon Svip's galloping hooves were eating up the distance of our familiar route along the riverbank to the Citadel of the Host of the Stars.

I had not visited Osgiliath since the afternoon that Lady Éowyn and I spent strolling in the ruins, now some weeks in the past. As the Great Stone Bridge came into view, I drew a startled breath and I would have reined in, had Svip been the sort of horse that one rides using reins.

As it was, I had no need to ask Svip to stop. His pace slowed and then dwindled to a halt, and my friend murmured, "Look at it! I saw it when the Rangers and I passed through here, but that was a few days ago, it wasn't nearly so … Look at it!"

"My gods," I whispered. "By all the gods!"

Like a dream or a page from a history book, the bridge stood before us, its three great arches striding across the River. I shivered a little as I gazed at it. For a moment it seemed that I could see all of Osgiliath shining in glory – as it once had done, and as I prayed that it would someday do again.

I will not say that the _entire _garrison of Osgiliath was gathered at the bridge – indeed, I could see a few of our Men at their posts on our new east wall, as tiny figures in the distance. But of a surety the great majority of them were clustered there by the bridge's western approach, along with the Men of the Stonemasons' Guild. Cheers rang out as Svip and I rode into view.

Leaping down from my friend's back, and he shifting to his own form an instant later, I hastened to shake hands with the massively grinning Guildleader Eppa. "Welcome, My Lord, welcome!" he declared. "Let me give you my congratulations on a day that I confess at times I feared we would never reach."

"You were not alone in that, Eppa," I said. "My congratulations to you, as well. My congratulations to all of us."

"Now," he continued with a bit of a rueful grimace, "we have only to determine how we can do more work on this place without spending any money, or to conjure up some money from somewhere! But," Eppa added, grinning once more, "let that be a worry for another time."

The guildleader gestured grandly toward the Great Stone Bridge, and invited us, "My Lord Boromir, will you and Master Svip join me in setting the final stone?"

"Lead the way, my friend," said I.

So the stonemason proudly led us to a point at what seemed to be the precise centre of the bridge. Here one gap remained amid the meticulously fitted stones upon which we trod. The block destined for that opening stood waiting at its edge.

"We don't need to make any speeches, do we?" I asked Eppa, when the three of us stopped by this stone.

"I think not, My Lord," the guildleader answered. "I think it will be well if we just shove."

"That is the kind of ceremony I like," I told him, as we turned to the task.

I was glad that I was not called upon to lift that building stone – an endeavour of which, I think, my not-quite-yet-healed broken ribs would not have approved. But simply shoving it posed no difficulty. With Eppa at one side of it and me at the other, and Svip pushing in the middle, we heaved the great stone into place.

A storm of cheers, applause and laughter answered us as we straightened up again, along with a sudden flurry of hats at the western end of the bridge as most members of the Stonemasons' Guild flung their caps into the air.

For a moment we could do naught but stand there and grin. Then Guildleader Eppa offered, "Will Your Lordship be the first to cross the finished bridge?"

"Nay, Eppa," I decided, "it will be of scant interest to the historians of future generations to read that Lord Boromir was first to cross the bridge." The idea came to me, "Let us see if any of the Men care to take part in a foot race to be the first across."

There followed further laughter, cheering, and much debate over who were the champion runners among those assembled, when I announced this race to our soldiers and stonemasons. At length the debating resolved itself with six representatives of the garrison and six of the Stonemasons' Guild standing abreast across the bridge's western end.

Svip scampered across to the east where he took up position atop one of the pillars of the bridge wall, to serve as the judge at the finish line – taking care not to step over the end and thus be the first to cross the bridge himself. Since I had declined the honour of crossing first, Master Eppa insisted that at least I must be one of the officials of the race. And so it fell to me to declaim the "At your marks, be set, away!"

For the interest of posterity I will record that the first to pass Svip at the finish line was Ohtar Son of Barahir, of our troops stationed at Osgiliath. He was followed by his fellow soldier Turgon Son of Rognvald and by the stonemason Ingold Son of Arn.

With the race concluded, amid much hilarity on the part of the runners' comrades, I granted leave for all to cross the bridge if they so chose, before returning to their duties.

"I guess I'll go along with them, My Lord," Eppa said almost apologetically, "though I do feel a bit of an ass to march across the bridge just to turn around and troop back again. At your convenience," he went on, "if you've the time, I'd ask you to meet with me and a few of our guild's lead Men, to discuss your thoughts on how the work here may best proceed."

"Gladly, Master Eppa," I told him. "I will join you shortly."

In truth I had expended a good deal of thought on the question since Aragorn announced his support for this project the morning before.

On one point, I thought, I might do well to speak first to Eppa alone, and attempt to enlist his agreement before his fellow guild members were there to be outraged by it.

It was in my thoughts to seek Gimli's help on this project, and perhaps to bring in some few of his people to act as advisors on much of the stonework we had ahead of us – serving freely, I hoped, from their wish to build closer ties with Aragorn and with Gondor, since I was directed to find ways for the work to proceed with minimum expense.

But I would need to find some means to avoid mortally offending Eppa and his masons by bringing in Dwarven advisors. Perhaps, I thought, another trip to the tavern would soon be in order, this time with Gimli and with Eppa of the Stonemasons.

Leaning on the wall of the Great Stone Bridge, above the westernmost piling, I waited while Svip made his way back to me through the throng of jubilant bridge-crossers. When the water creature reached me, he scrambled to the top of the wall and sat there by my side. He tilted his head and he studied me for some little time.

At length Svip observed, "You're going to have to cross it sometime, you know."

"I know it," I admitted. I smiled at him, a trifle embarrassed to be confessing this. "I suppose it is just that … I've awaited this moment for so very long. I have dreamed of rebuilding this bridge ever since I was a child, when I first heard the story of how the Great Stone Bridge was felled in Steward Boromir's battles to regain Osgiliath. Now that what was deemed impossible has come to pass … I suppose I am loath to let this moment end too swiftly."

Svip nodded and smiled. For a time we simply watched the River.

"It was right about here, I think," I mused, thinking aloud. "It was just at this point of the bridge, where Faramir and I stood in the battle last summer. It was only a wooden bridge that we'd built atop the pilings, but I think … I think we were right here."

It seemed for an instant that I saw, and felt, all of it again. That I saw our foes ranged against us, all fangs and swords and screaming battle frenzy, packed so tightly in their numbers that they scarce could wield their blades. That I felt the blood and sweat streaming down my face, felt the dull weariness of my sword arm, felt that undertone of pride and protectiveness that is always a part of me when my brother fights at my side. And I felt again the stark, all-encompassing terror that swept through us all as the King of the Nazgûl rode at us like a black shadow under the moon.

As I put the memories aside, I murmured, "Sometimes I can still scarce credit – all that has happened. What we have all seen. How much has changed."

By now all but a few last stragglers had made their way across the bridge and back again. The Men were returning now to their work: those of the garrison, to their posts along the walls; the stonemasons packing up any remaining tools and heading for their horses and their wains to return to the City. Those few who were still on the bridge kept a respectful distance from us, walking back to the western shore along the opposite side from where I stood, although two or three of these called out congratulations to us as they passed.

Svip waved at one Man who had hailed us. But despite this gesture, the water creature seemed deep in pondering. At last he spoke, his words halting and tentative as though he sought to give form to what he could scarcely express in even his own mind.

He began, "You know that I'm here to stay. I'm not going back to the Falls. I am staying … if that's all right with you."

"All right!" I echoed. "My gods, Svip! It is so much more than all right."

It was a wondering jumble of emotions that I felt. Joy, disbelief, gratitude and amazement leapt up within me, all of them intertwined.

Svip went on, "I brought some of our house plants with me, when the Rangers and I came back from Rauros. You know the plants grow all along the riverbed, near my home – near my old home. I brought a few of the sprouts this time, to see if I can grow a new house for myself, down here. I wasn't sure how they'd take to the River here; the soil might be different enough, I thought maybe they wouldn't grow. But I've kept the sprouts in the riverbed at the Harlond, and so far they seem to be doing fine. They're not withering at all. So last night – since you're going to be doing a lot more work here at Osgiliath – I went out and got one of the sprouts and I planted it here, underneath the bridge.

"I'll still want to stay at your house a lot, if I can," he hastened onward. "And it'll be a year or so before the house gets big enough to live in, anyway, even assuming everything goes right with the plant liking the water and the soil and all. So we won't know for a while yet, whether it's going to work. But I thought … I thought that, if it works, this is where I want my house to be. I want it to be here, because Osgiliath means so much to you."

Emotion, for a moment, stopped my power of speech. I reached out and clasped Svip's hand.

"I pray that it will work," I said. "But Svip, I want you to know … you are welcome anywhere. Always. At my house, at the Harlond, in all of Gondor. Anywhere. My father gave you the Freedom of the Kingdom of Gondor. I second that, with all of my heart."

And there I might have left it. But the thought whispered to my mind that there was more that needed to be said.

We had another foe we must face, though this battle was one I wished desperately to avoid.

"Svip," I began, "there is more I must say to you. More that I must be certain both of us understand."

I stopped then, as I fought to marshal my words. At last I said, "When you spoke with my father, when he appeared to you … you said that you feared what may happen when I die. I will die again, whether it be the later or the sooner. I will die, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. No matter how I wish that I could. I need to be certain … Svip, I need to be certain that you have accepted this. And that knowing this, you still wish to stay."

The water creature swallowed. He did not speak, for long enough that I came to fear his answer. But then he said, meeting my gaze, "I know it. I've thought about it; I've thought of it a lot. Sometimes it seems I think of nothing else."

He banished that, with a half-smile and a shake of his head. He spoke bravely, yet in a voice that trembled with all that we would never say.

"So when that happens," Svip said to me, "I'll be a friend to your children. And to your children's children. And I will remember you. And I will hope that someday we will see each other again."

Fiercely willing back tears, I tightened my hand about his. "I hope we will," I told him. "By all the gods, I hope so."

No more, then, could either of us manage speech. Gripping each other's hands, we gazed at the silver waters of Anduin, and beyond, to the ruined city and the gleaming, shattered remnants of the mighty Dome of the Stars.

Of a sudden Svip squeezed my hand the tighter and then leapt down from the wall. For a moment more he was solemn as he stood looking up at me. Then upon the long, green face of my friend, there appeared a challenging grin.

"So, then, Captain of Anduin," said he. "Are you crossing this bridge or aren't you?"

I could not help but grin in return. "I am crossing it, My Lord Svip," I answered, and I bowed to him. "Will you cross it with me?"

"Let us go," said Svip.

Side by side, we walked across Osgilialth's Great Stone Bridge.


End file.
